


Soul Searching

by Hesadevil



Series: La Series [2]
Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-25
Updated: 2009-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-03 17:18:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 48,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hesadevil/pseuds/Hesadevil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sequel to Family:Blood Calls to Blood. It's post-Not Fade Away and the battle continues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
  
  
  
[](index.html)

 

[Home](index.html)

 

* * *

  
[  
Fanfic Home](Fanfic.html)

* * *

  
[Soul  
Searching Home](Soul%20Searching%20Home.html)

 

 

 

|    


banner ©Myfeetshowit

Soul Searching

 

________________________________________________________

 

 

  


**Prologue**

 

The alley behind the Hyperion Hotel was awash with freshly spilled  
blood, the rain sluicing it into the gutter in torrents. And still they  
came; wave after wave of seemingly unstoppable demons bent on destroying  
the pitifully small band of figures fighting with their backs to the  
wall. As each line fell, another replaced it; a never ending horde clamouring  
for annihilation.

 

In the sky above, the dragon screamed, its jaws peeling back revealing  
a deep maw containing neither flesh nor bone, but pure darkness. With  
a roar, the thing that had assumed the dragon's form, spewed forth, fracturing  
into three parts, each rolling away from the battle and up into the storm  
that accompanied it. As they did so, a figure plummeted to the pavement,  
still clutching the sword that had dealt the dragon the mortal blow.  
Crumpled on the gore soaked ground, Angel raised his head briefly and  
blinked the blood from his eyes before losing consciousness.

 

Above the rooftops, three clouds, blacker than the rainstorm that   
had heralded the beginning of the conflict, billowed and grew, changing   
shape, reforming and finally solidifying in the forms of a wolf, a ram,   
and a hart. The rain stopped. Something worse replaced the storm. _Fog_,   
rolling in from the direction of the bay, bringing with it the faint metallic   
odour of dark magic. As the fog thickened, it grew colder, blacker, and   
foul-smelling, turning rapidly into smog, the kind that conceals, smothers,   
binds and kills.

 

Gunn was the first to fall, unable to hold off the attackers he   
could no longer see. Illyria was next; cursing the loss of powers she   
once had to sense and anticipate the enemy. Spike continued to fight on   
a while longer, his heightened vampire senses guiding his moves. But he   
was alone and eventually, overcome by the sheer numbers, he too fell and  
was buried under a mass of blood-hungry demons.

 

…………………………………………………………..

 

He knew she was there before he saw her, sensed her before he caught  
her scent above the acrid smell of the corpses that pinned him to the  
sodden pavement. Before she grasped his arm and hauled him to his feet,  
he could taste her fiery anger punching its way through the suffocating  
clouds.

 

Spike opened his swollen eyes and grinned at her. "The Big Poof   
had a plan after all then." He scanned the alley for signs of the others.   
"Did he make it?" he asked her anxiously, still searching the battleground.   
"Where is he?"

 

Spike turned back to face the slayer but she had thrown herself   
into the fight before she'd heard his question. There were other girls   
fighting alongside her, skilful and strong, slicing heads from bodies   
with apparent ease. Illyria was with them but, even so, they were outnumbered.   
As quickly as they sent a demon to its death, another took its place.

 

 

Spike gazed at them in awe, feeling as if he'd died and gone to   
heaven. He rubbed his face, feeling the blood welling from fresh wounds,   
wincing in pain as he gathered his strength to fling himself back into   
the fray. "Not heaven then," he muttered.

 

As he turned to join them, a sudden blast of power threw him to   
the ground; the heat singeing his coat, adding further to the damage it  
had suffered from the dragon's fire. He watched with amazement as the demons  
stopped their attack, responding to some unheard call to retreat. He saw  
Illyria turn her attention to the Slayer who had led the counter-attack.   
She held out her leather-clad arm towards her and pulled it back rapidly   
as it drew sparks from the power-shield that surrounded her. The demons   
silently disappeared into the fog, which quickly turned back into mist before   
dissipating altogether. The rain returned, a fine drizzle at first, then   
gathering strength, cascading in icy sheets, from a sky that gradually brightened   
with dawn's imminent arrival.

 

Spike lurched painfully to his feet. "Where's Angel?" he shouted.   
"We have to find cover."

 

Illyria continued her scrutiny of the woman who had earlier pulled  
Spike to his feet. "Your leader is there," she said. Without changing  
the direction of her gaze, she pointed at a battered figure slumped in  
the Hyperion's rear entrance, cradling Gunn's head, shielding him from  
the worst of the rain.

 

Spike strode over shrugging his singed duster off his shoulders   
as he did so. He held it out to Angel. "Here, use this," he said softly.  
"Is he going to be OK?" Not waiting for an answer, Spike's eyes swept  
the alley once more. "How'd you pull this off?" he asked, indicated the  
girls standing before them. "Put out a 911 call while you were airborne,  
did you?"

 

Angel frowned and glanced beyond Spike at the slayer who held Illyria's   
attention and was running towards them "Buffy . . .she . . ."

 

Spike never heard the rest of Angel's explanation. Strong hands   
gripped his shoulder and swung him round. He was pulled into an embrace   
that would have done serious damage to a human body and his lips were   
assaulted by a passionate kiss. His blood sang in response and he leaned   
in, opening his mouth, welcoming the tongue that caressed his. The soft   
moan that greeted his response shocked him into breaking the embrace.   
His eyes flew open and stared into the green ones of the slight figure   
that continued to grip his arms like a drowning woman clutching at her   
rescuer.

 

"Bloody Hell, Slayer," Spike gasped. "What'd you do that for?"  
He glanced over his shoulder at Angel. "You saw that, right? _She_   
kissed _me_. You really should keep a closer eye on your bird,   
mate. She's loopier than Dru _ever_ was."

 

 

 

 

  
  
  
---|---


	2. 1Soul Sensations

  
  
  
  
[](index.html)

 

[Home](index.html)

 

* * *

  
[  
Fanfic Home](Fanfic.html)

* * *

  
[Soul  
Searching Home](Soul%20Searching%20Home.html)

 

 

 

|   
Soul  
Searching

 

________________________________________________________

 

 

**Chapter  
1**: Soul Sensations

 

The entrance lobby of the Hyperion bustled with activity and at first   
glance, it looked to be in total chaos. People hurried in from the street   
carrying toolboxes, cooking utensils, armfuls of bedding, and camping cots.   
The stuffy air smelt of dust, sweat and blood and was laden with soft cries   
of pain as the injured called urgently for assistance.

 

In the midst of this, Buffy moved through the room with calm efficiency,  
directing the first-aiders and indicating where supplies should go. As  
more bloodstained slayers were ferried in through the front doors she allocated  
places in adjoining rooms according to the severity of their injuries.  
Illyria followed her progress, observing from a distance as she checked  
each new arrival. Twice she stepped into Buffy’s path and received an icy  
glare, to which she responded with a slight, quizzical tilt of her head.

 

 

"Will you back off?" Buffy snapped.

 

"I wish to observe," replied Illyria.

 

"Well do it somewhere else – like Texas."

 

Illyria ignored her, instead looking over her head towards the doors  
as Angel and Spike appeared, carrying Gunn between them on a wooden board.   
They moved slowly, taking care not to jolt their injured comrade.

 

Buffy took one swift look at Gunn, and pulled her cell phone out of   
her jacket pocket, flicking it open with a snap. She punched a number into   
the keypad. "We need the Crash Team," she said briskly. She glanced at Spike  
and tears welled behind her eyes. "Hyperion Hotel, 4121 Wilshire Boulevard."   
Without waiting to hear further questions, she closed the phone and bent   
her head to a wounded girl at her feet.

 

Illyria switched her attention to the two vampires, though her eyes   
remained fixed on Buffy. They were nursing injuries of their own. Spike’s   
duster was in tatters; the charred remains hanging from his shoulders like   
paper streamers. His black T-shirt was stained and gashed and his face was   
a mass of purple and black. Several deep gouges on his forehead showed the   
beginnings of healing but the dried blood on his eyes and cheeks bore witness   
to the savagery of the demons who had felled him.

 

Angel’s injuries were less visible, but he moved stiffly with a pronounced  
limp on his left side. He shifted the weight of the board onto his right   
hip, wincing with each painful step.

 

"What were you playing at?" he hissed.

 

"Told you, _she_ started it," snarled Spike.

 

"Not that!" Angel spat in response. Illyria noted that as he spoke,   
his eyes flicked over to where Buffy was still crouched beside the young   
girl. She was tight-lipped, her tear-streaked face bleak and closed.

 

Illyria stepped closer as Angel lowered his voice to a whisper. "You’re   
tearing her apart, Spike. I know we agreed to move on, but what you just   
did is too much. Even for you."

 

Angel gestured with his head at a vacant spot on the ground and he  
and Spike carefully lowered each end of the makeshift stretcher to the  
floor. Spike squinted at Angel through blood-caked lashes. "What’re you  
on about? That dragon venom’s affected your brain, Grandpa’."

 

"It’s not _me_ that’s affected! This is the woman you _said_  
you loved. If this is an example of the way you treated her when . . .  
"

 

"Loved? The Slayer! _Me_?" Spike’s yell cut Angel off.

 

All activity in the room ceased as people turned their attention to   
the two vampires standing face to face, noses almost touching. Illyria’s   
swift, noiseless glide away from them went unnoticed in the hushed stillness   
that followed Spike’s outburst. She observed him from a distance, waiting   
for the storm she knew was gathering in his mind, to thunder its presence.

 

 

Gunn’s low groan, and an accompanying growl from Spike’s stomach, broke   
the silence. "Look’s like Chuck’s done for," Spike muttered, glancing down.   
His stomach gave another rumble. "And I’m feeling mighty peckish."

 

Buffy slowly got to her feet, glared at Spike, and crossed the room   
towards the entrance, as the distant sounds of sirens heralding the arrival   
of ambulances grew louder.

 

Angel tensed in alarm as he saw ridges beginning to appear on Spike’s   
forehead, but before he could move, Spike backed rapidly away from Gunn,   
colliding into Buffy in his haste to put distance between himself and the   
injured man.

 

Buffy pushed him aside, her grazed knuckles leaving droplets of blood   
on the shoulder of his duster. "Better keep out of my way, Spike. I'm not   
gonna take this much longer."

 

Illyria focussed on Spike. She could feel his confusion, reading it   
in swirling patterns of colour, pulsing round his body like a light show   
accompanying a symphony orchestra. She reached out and touched his mind   
with hers, probing it to reveal his thoughts and feelings.

 

Spike closed his eyes, the wave of emotion rippling across his stomach,   
leaving the muscles tight with tension. His nostrils flared at the familiar   
scent, Buffy’s scent: sweat and blood mingled with the sweeter, lighter   
perfume of Jasmine.

 

_That smell. _

 

Unbidden images flashed through his mind with the instantaneous hardening  
of his penis; Buffy, naked and moaning with pleasure beneath him; a tiled   
floor; a torn bathrobe; hands aflame. With the images came an aching sense  
of loss and desolation, washing over him in painful waves. He swallowed  
hard and opened his eyes, struggling for a quick rejoinder to Buffy’s words  
that never came. Instead, he found himself staring into Illyria’s glacial  
eyes, hearing her speak, though her lips never moved.

 

"The price you willingly paid is high, vampire." Illyria’s voice echoed   
in his head.

 

Spike blinked with surprise. And suddenly, she was gone, resuming her   
place in the centre of the room, motionless and silent once more.

 

Angel, too, was watching as the warring emotions danced across Spike’s  
face. Horror, pain, desire, need, and guilt, in quick succession. He grasped  
Buffy’s arm as she moved past him. "Buffy . . ."

 

She jerked away from his grasp. “Not now, Angel,” she said stonily.   
"There’s more important things I have to do."

 

"You _are_ coming back?" Angel frowned, lowering his voice. "There’s  
something wrong with Spike." He gestured at the blond vampire who swung  
his head from Angel to Buffy, frantically searching their faces for reassurance.

 

 

Buffy snorted. "You just figure that out?"

 

"This is serious." Angel glanced again at Spike who was inching further   
away from Gunn. "I think a demon took a chunk out of him."

 

"He’ll have to wait his turn," Buffy replied coldly, avoiding Angel’s   
eyes.

 

She swung the doors open, revealing the Crash Team. They moved swiftly  
into the room, carrying drip stands, IV bags, coolers, and medical bags.

 

 

"There’s your patient." Buffy gestured at Gunn. "There’s a room out   
back all ready." She pushed the doors wide open, and left without a backward  
glance.

 

Angel gave Gunn's hand a reasurring pat as the medics carried him away,   
then hobbled painfully to where Spike sat slumped against the reception   
desk with his knees drawn up, his head resting on them underneath folded   
arms. He placed a hand on Spike’s shoulder.

 

"Spike. What happened?" he asked softly.

 

The younger vampire mumbled something unintelligible and shrugged Angel’s  
hand off.

 

Angel lowered himself carefully to the floor, rested his head back  
against the front panel of the desk and sighed wearily. They sat together  
in silence, watching as the room gradually emptied, leaving Illyria standing  
alone in the same spot from which she’d watched Buffy leave the hotel.

 

 

"You’re a bastard!” Spike’s voice shattered the stillness. “A manipulative,  
self-centred, prancing, do-gooding, Nancy Boy . . ." The tirade came to  
a sudden halt.

 

"Feel better now?" Angel asked, studying Spike’s face for clues.

 

"No," Spike pouted. "I’m not done yet." His face creased with a sudden  
spasm of pain. "God, I’m hungry. All this fresh on-tap human blood sloshing  
around, you’d think I could have just one little sip." He inhaled deeply,  
then tensed his jaw and stared at his Grandsire. "Angel, what’s wrong  
with me?"

 

Angel regarded him for a long time before answering. Something in Spike’s  
storm-grey eyes warned him to tread carefully.

 

"That’s what I’d like to know," he replied finally. "Are you sure you   
haven’t taken Andrew’s advice too much to heart? Moving on’s one thing.   
But I’m seeing denial here. You loved her Spike. You got your soul back for  
her."

 

Spike’s shoulders slumped even lower as he let his head fall back into  
his hands. "But I don’t remember."

 

"You don’t remember . . .?" began Angel.

 

"Hang on!" Spike’s head snapped up. "_Soul_? Don’t be bloody stupid.  
I haven’t got a soul." He pulled himself onto his feet and strode angrily  
away, stopping beside Illyria who remained still and quiet. "_You're_  
the soulful one. I’m as soulless as the Ice Queen here."

 

Angel hauled himself up, slowly levering himself upright with the aid   
of the counter top. He limped painfully towards Spike. "_As if I haven’t  
enough to worry about, I now have an amnesiac second-in-command on my  
hands_," he thought despondently.

 

"No soul? Then how do you account for not being able to drink human   
blood?" he asked.

 

Spike’s response was instantaneous. "The chip."

 

"And why are you here helping me?" Angel raised his eyebrows.

 

"Because . . ." Spike stopped, narrowing his eyes. "That a trick question?"

 

 

Angel changed tack. "If you never loved her, why did you help Buffy   
in Sunnydale all that time?"

 

Spike didn’t answer. Instead, he began pacing the room, his face contorted   
with the effort of trying to recall the events of the past five years.

 

 

Angel was unsure how far to push Spike but he pressed on. "And why  
did you stay with Dawn after Buffy died?"

 

Spike ceased pacing. "Nibblet," he breathed. A painful vice clutched  
his chest as more images crowded into his mind; the feel of Dawn’s arms  
as she clung to him on the back of a motorcycle; her standing in the doorway  
of his crypt; "_If you wanted to hurt Buffy -- congratulations. It worked_."

 

 

Angel noticed Spike’s unease but continued his attack. "And why did   
you stay to die at the Hellmouth when Buffy told you . . ."

 

Spike’s fist slammed into Angel’s jaw, sending him reeling backwards  
into Illyria. "That’s _enough_," he snarled. "No more mind games.  
I . . . She," he struggled for control. "There. _Is. No. Soul_. Couldn’t  
love the Slayer. Right. Wrong. All wrong." Spike backed away from Angel  
and faced the wall, running his hands along the torn wallpaper and mumbling  
softly to himself.

 

The entrance door opened quietly and Buffy stepped inside; Lorne stood  
grim-faced behind her. Illyria was still contemplating the spot Buffy  
had vacated earlier. A flash of acknowledgement passed between her and  
Lorne and she shifted the focus of her attention from Spike to Angel.

 

"This Slayer is the One," an icy voice said softly in his ear. "And   
so it begins. It was not a demon that removed part of your comrade,” she   
said. He gave it freely to help another."

 

Angel caught the slight motion of Illyria’s hand in front of his eyes   
before the light from the room faded. The ground slipped away from under   
him and he felt the vertigo he’d experienced on the dragon’s back. He tried   
to shake his head in an attempt to clear it, but his muscles wouldn’t co-operate  
and he felt himself leaving his body and floating in the darkness.

 

 

 

 

  
  
  
---|---


	3. 2Lost Souls

  
  
  
  
[](index.html)

 

[Home](index.html)

 

* * *

  
[  
Fanfic Home](Fanfic.html)

 

* * *

  
[Soul Searching Home](Soul%20Searching%20Home.html)

 

 

 

|    
Soul  
Searching

 

________________________________________________________

 

 

**Chapter 2: **Lost Souls

 

Three clouds loomed on the horizon. Shaped like warships,   
long, broad and dense, with anvil-shaped prows. They streamed closer, blackening  
the entire sky, hurling down salvos of heavy rain and stinging hail. The  
wind was a solid wall of sound, pounding a counter-rhythm to the percussive  
shocks crumpling the sky. Lightning tore at the graphite heavens, ripping  
them apart. It seemed that Nature in all her wildest fury was hell bent  
on destroying the rook as it soared above the city. Yet this weather was  
no natural phenomenon, the Storm Fiend was fuelled with anger, brutal and  
feral, and it burnt the air with each lightning flash. The stench of sulphur  
lingered, despite the driving rain, thudding down relentlessly in implacable  
volleys; Ares’s warrior-archers’ aim deadly, sure and true.

 

“You must witness certain events as they happened if you are to understand   
and accept the journey that lies ahead.” Illyria’s voice said from somewhere   
inside Angel’s head.

 

He opened his mouth to speak, struggling against the confines of the   
body in which she’d trapped him. “Illyria? Where am I? Where are you?”   
These were the words that echoed through his mind. What he heard was the   
rasping sound of rusty metal on metal, ending in a vaguely familiar ‘cack   
cack’.

 

“To fight is futile.”

 

Angel had looked on the world with eyes that were not his own once   
before, when the Darkness that was Acathla swallowed him. Then he’d been   
left with a lingering image of Buffy, the sword with which she had just   
run him through still in her hand. He peered through the downpour, more   
or less certain now that he was airborne, and a reluctant passenger with   
Illyria, within her Spirit Guide.

 

As he relaxed, Angel could feel the whip and wire of the air through   
his feathers, the sting of each hailstone on head and beak and wing, as   
they rode the switchback of the spirals and curves of storm-tossed thermals.   
No city lights guided their way as the rook plunged through the tumult,   
spiralling downwards, riding the waterfall thundering to the streets below.   
Angel tried bracing himself for a rough landing, forgetting for an instant   
that he was not the one in control of this borrowed body, straining to see   
through the blackness that accompanied their descent.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

 

Slowly, the light returned and with it, the realisation that he was  
no longer part of the bird that stood watching him, head cocked, blue  
eyes glittering.

 

“A power such as I have not enjoyed since my Wesley robbed me of it,   
will guide you now, half-breed. My task is done,” croaked the bird with   
Illyria’s voice. And with that, the rook lifted its wings and beat the   
air twice before disappearing in a flurry of ebony and purple-black velvet.

 

Angel blinked and stared at the man in front of him through Lorne’s  
eyes.

 

“You don't trust me. You don't think a man can change?” Lindsey grimaced   
up at him.

 

“It's not about what I think. This was Angel's plan.” Lorne’s voice   
replied solemnly. Angel flinched, knowing what was to come.

 

Lindsey smiled at him. “I could sing for you,” he offered.

 

“I've heard you sing,” Lorne’s weary voice replied.

 

Angel looked down at Lorne’s hand, holding the gun he himself had  
given him. He smelt the cordite of the explosion, watched the bullet  
making its way, in slow motion towards Lindsey’s heart.

 

“Why-why did you...?” Lindsey gasped.

 

“One last job,” came Lorne’s toneless response. Angel’s thought joined  
him in perfect harmony. “_You're not part of the solution, Lindsey.  
You never will be_.”

 

The dying man slid down the wall, his words coming in painful gasps.   
“You kill me? A flunky?! I'm not just... Angel...kills me. You don't...   
Angel...”

 

“_But I just did_,” Angel told his closing eyes.

 

\---------------------------------------------------

 

 

 

Lorne swung the car into the slow moving traffic, wiping the   
condensation from the front window with the sleeve of his jacket. Angel   
watched the driving rain and listened to the squeal of the windscreen wipers   
as they tried valiantly to clear the deluge.

 

Angel’s mind screamed in pain at the newsreel of visions that flooded  
in causing Lorne to pull over and stop the car, his hands shaking on the  
wheel; Fred, holding Wesley’s body, crying “_My love. Oh, my love_”;  
her hand smashing Vail’s skull into thousands of fragments; Fred, in Wesley’s  
arms, “_Why can’t I stay_?”

 

More events crowded into Lorne’s mind, threatening to overwhelm Angel;   
sounds and sights he could almost touch. Conflicting memories warred with   
one another: Spike crashing through the observation window of the training   
room, a circle surrounding the hieroglyphs from Illyira’s coffin, Wesley,   
holding a crystal aloft; Connor, lying bruised and bloodied on a sofa in  
Spike’s office. Angel’s mind screamed for emptiness. Those things never   
happened. His soul writhed with guilt. He hadn’t saved her. _He’d let   
her die_.

 

Lorne rested his head on his trembling arms and sobbed. He was shaking   
so violently that Angel could feel his own consciousness colliding with   
that of the Pylean. He battled furiously to take control but felt Lorne’s   
will slip from his grasp, as more apparitions flooded in; Illyria, crouching   
beside Wesley’s lifeless form, keening, “_What dost thou behold, fair   
light? But thou dost smile and depart. Farewell, thou silent beam! Let the   
light of Heimdall’s soul arise_!

 

‘_Cordellia’s visions_.’ The thought struck Angel like a physical   
blow. She’d passed them to Lorne. ‘_Impossible!_’ She’d given Angel   
the single gift that had enabled him to take out the Circle of the Black   
Thorn.

 

Illyria appeared before them, blue hair streaming in the wind and  
rain. “Turn the car around,” she commanded. “There is more yet that you  
must do.” As she dissolved back into the storm, Lorne turned the key in  
the ignition and spun the car through a U-turn, ignoring the oncoming  
traffic and leaving a line of rear-shunted cars in his wake as he sped  
back towards the city.

 

\-----------------------------------------------

 

The Merc squealed to a halt across the path of hooded figure hurrying  
away from an apartment block. The headlights caught a flash of white hair  
as the monastic robe was discarded. Spike’s face was bloody from battle  
but he crouched in defensive mode, ready to face whatever emerged from  
the car. Angel watched him visibly relax as he recognised the former Karaoke  
Host.

 

“Lorne! Thought you’d quit. Didn’t think you went in for spectator   
sports.”

 

“Need you for a solo spot before the main act gets underway,” replied  
Lorne. He glanced anxiously at the sky. “Don’t have much time.”

 

Angel observed the incredulous look that passed across Spike’s face  
and he gave Lorne’s consciousness a metaphorical kick. “Tell him what’s  
at stake,” he clamoured silently, as Spike turned to make his way towards  
the Hyperion.

 

Lorne gripped Spike’s arm. “It’s Fred,” he said simply. “I know where  
she is.”

 

Spike lowered his eyes as a grimace of pain flared across his face.  
“She’s dead, mate,” he said softly. “Dead and gone.”

 

The thunder rolled across the sky, increasing its cacophony with each  
jagged burst of lightening. Lorne stared at the blackness over their heads.  
“Never knew there could be so many shades of black.”

 

‘_A thousand shades of black_

 

But the same rule always applies

 

Smile pretty, and watch your back,’ he crooned.

 

Lorne’s singing ended abruptly and he fixed Spike with a resolute  
stare. “Sparrow _lied_!” Lorne drove the word through gritted teeth.  
“ Fred’s soul couldn’t be destroyed, any more than yours or Angel’s could.  
It’s out there, Spike. And I know someone that’s willing to do a deal.  
Another little bird brought a message from The Powers.”

 

“Why me?” asked Spike. “What have I got that the Powers want?”

 

“Nothing that’s of value to _them_. That’s not the way it works.  
They’ll grant a favour for the right price.”

 

“And that would be . . . ?”

 

“Something important to _you_.”

 

As Angel waited for the rest of Lorne’s explanation, the light faded   
once more and he felt himself swept into the air and dumped unceremoniously  
back into his own body in the Hyperion’s reception area.

 

\---------------------------------------

 

Lorne waved sheepishly at him from behind Buffy. “Hi Big Guy,” he  
smiled. “You all caught up, courtesy of Little Miss Blue Eyes?”

 

Angel looked at Spike who was standing beside the staircase with his   
back to the wall, pulling at a cigarette as though his life depended on   
the fumes he inhaled. A clatter from the head of the stairs drew everyone’s   
attention. Looking dishevelled and bloody, but very much alive, Wesley   
stumbled into view and half-fell down the first few steps. His gaze swept   
the room below, as if searching for something or someone. It stopped at   
Illyria, who raised her head regally to meet his stare.

 

“I . . .” Wesley began, his voice cracked and hoarse. “Fred’s room.  
It contains something important, something I can’t read.” He paused. “The   
walls, they . . .”

 

Wesley sat down abruptly and Illyria appeared by his side, though  
no one saw her move from her place below. “We need someone with powers  
greater than those that remain to me,” she said.

 

“What you need is a Witch.” Buffy’s voice sounded a clear clarion  
call to action. “Fortunately for you, we already have one of those.”

 

 

  
  
  
---|---


	4. 3Soul Trader

  
  
  
  
[](index.html)

 

[Home](index.html)

 

* * *

  
[  
Fanfic Home](Fanfic.html)

* * *

  
[Soul   
Searching Home](Soul%20Searching%20Home.html)

 

 

 

|   
Soul Searching

 

________________________________________________________

 

 

 

**Chapter 3**: Soul Trader

 

Spike ground the stub of his cigarette into the wall beside him, the   
ash leaving a dark smudge, like old blood, on the marble. Threads of pink   
and rose ran though the cold stone, and he marvelled at how they mimicked   
the veins of the human body. He traced a finger along a thin capillary.   
The need for blood, to rend, to kill, was primal and all this waiting around   
amongst the injured was stretching his thin patience.

 

He forced the feeling down, resisting the urge to feed and pushed  
himself off the pillar he’d been leaning against in frustration. Restlessness   
drove him, to move, to do something. His duster hung in useless tatters   
from his shoulders, flapping as he searched the ruined pockets for the crumpled  
cigarette packet. Spike’s anger flared for an instant. He tore off the  
remains, taking a moment to gaze at it sorrowfully. _'Another coat down'_,  
he thought,_ what else had he lost_?

 

A movement from inside the doorway turned his attention to the two   
figures that had just entered. What had Lorne said to Angel?

 

_‘All caught up now?’_

 

Spike looked to his grandsire for an explanation. What he saw in his   
face was something akin to concern, concern tinged with respect. Spike   
snapped his head back in surprise._ Nothing made any sense_. He pulled   
another cigarette out of the pack, lighting it as he stared at Lorne, who   
was peering anxiously at him over Buffy’s shoulder.

 

“Thought you’d quit,” Spike remarked,. “Thought _you_ wanted  
me dusted,” he exhaled a lungful of smoke in Buffy’s direction. He moved   
across the lobby to the forlorn man on the stairs. “And I thought _you   
_were dead!”

 

Wesley raised weary eyes to meet Spike’s. “I . . . ,” he faltered,   
“. . . rather think I was.”

 

Spike lowered his gaze; unable to endure the pain and sorrow he’d  
glimpsed in addition to his own fierce sense of loss. A flare of ice blue  
from Illyria’s hand re-ignited his anger. With a snarl, Spike sprang towards   
her. “You! What did you do?”

 

Illyria didn’t flinch. Instead she raised an arm and drew the mark   
of the sigil from her sarcophagus in the air between them. “By the power   
of the Illuminata, _admitte_. By the soul of The Watcher Heimdall,  
_admitte_. By the power of all that was Illyria, God-King of  
the Primordium, _admitte_.” The diamond she held in her hand glowed,  
flashing fire of blues and golds and amber in a dancing, spinning spiral  
throughout the room, freezing the moment for everyone; for everyone except  
Spike.

 

******************************************

 

The colours darkened, as they threaded their way through his nostrils,   
into his ears, filling his eyes with blackness.

__

 

‘A thousand shades of black

 

But the same rule always applies

 

Smile pretty, and watch your back.’

 

Lorne’s voice crooned somewhere in the distance.

 

_“They’ll grant a favour for the right price.”_

 

“ . . . something important to **you**.”

 

The diamond sparkled in space before him, banishing the darkness,  
replacing it with a purity of light that robbed him of all vision, engulfing  
him in a white glow that filled him with a sense of peace he’d never known  
before. He was standing, alone, in a room, or at least he supposed it  
was, he could feel no breath of wind nor hear any natural sounds. Spike  
stared, sightless, into the vast white space stretching before him towards  
infinity. _“A thousand shades of white,_” he thought.

 

“We like to maintain a balance,” a disembodied voice sussurated somewhere   
above him.

 

“Which is the reason we invited _you _here.” A second speaker,  
more masculine in tone, joined the first.

 

Spike searched for the source of the voices but could see nothing.   
Sheer, unfathomable cliffs of pure chalk stretched up as far as his eyes   
could discern. There was no ceiling that he could determine, no doors or   
windows.

 

“Yeah? How come?” he asked, feeling his way along the nearest wall,  
fingers probing for some indication of a way out but finding none. He  
felt remarkably unconcerned; all emotion seemed to have slipped away with  
the darkness.

 

“The Old One was never meant to leave the Deeper Well.”

 

“Thought it was part of her million-year plan.” Spike squinted into  
the profound light. It flowed from the origin of the voices like a river,  
its blue-white waves flickering, effulgent, as they glided onwards.

 

“The Keeper of the Well was chosen to thwart it.”

 

“The Wolf, Ram and Hart sought to make use of it for their own purpose.”

 

“_They_ intervened.”

 

“And denied us one of our Warriors.”

 

“_Fred_.” Spike’s emotions crashed back with an intensity that  
threatened to crush him.

 

“Where is she?” he snarled.

 

“Where the one who is needed by Illyria had found her.”

 

“And so we will restore him to guide you.”

 

“So what now? You want my soul? This going to be a Warrior for a Warrior   
sort of deal?”

 

The first voice ignored Spike’s question. “Anyanka was correct. You  
should not have been allowed to do it. But we were curious to see what  
would happen, why such a creature as you would seek a soul.“

 

“And so_ we _did not interfere.” The second voice added.

 

“Afraid to get your lily white’s dirty?” Spike sneered.

 

A wave of absolute coldness blasted him from his feet. So intense  
was its fiery ferocity, it burned where it touched him.

 

“_Angels are terrible things, my Spike. Demons of the light they   
are, with steel tipped pinions_.”

 

A sudden fear grabbed Spike as he recalled Drusilla’s words. “Like   
you could have stopped me!” he growled into the void above his head.

 

“_Defiance_. We know this. We understand this.” The feminine  
voice replied evenly.

 

“But the love that drives you. That we cannot comprehend. Nor would  
wish to.” The masculine one added.

 

“What do you _want_, you clapped out pair of stereo speakers?   
demanded Spike. “Need me to tweak your woofers to restore your balance?”

 

“You rightly fear us. Just as Illyria’s subjects once feared her.”

 

“What we seek as the price is more precious to you than even your  
soul.”

 

“It is the key to unlocking that which should not be opened but shall  
be.”

 

Something inside Spike fractured and flew into hundreds of pieces,   
each one tearing him in a different direction, allowing the turmoil that   
had been threatening since Buffy kissed him, to finally overwhelm him. And,  
as it did so, the light splintered, prisms erupting in multiple rainbows  
of colour; and time returned.

 

************************************

 

“Key – what key? I’m not a sodding key.” Spike was swept along on  
the floodtide of memories released by the word; lying bruised and bloodied  
in his crypt; Buffy turning to leave; “_what you did, for Dawn and me,  
that was real. I won’t forget it_”; standing on a bridge with Angel  
staring into a hole in the world. Spike reeled backwards and fell to his  
knees, clutching his head in both hands. “Too much. Too much!” he cried,  
thrashing against the stairwell in an attempt to drive the images from his  
brain.

 

Buffy’s strong hands gripped his, gently pulling them away from his  
face and replacing them with her own. She cupped his cheek and stroked  
it. “Spike, stop it,” she said gently. “What do you remember?”

 

Spike leaned into her hand, feeling its warmth, savouring the tenderness   
of the caress. He felt a soft beat pulsing against his skin, heard the   
sound of blood pumping through Buffy’s wrist. He licked his lips. God he   
was so hungry. Just a taste, that’s all he needed. It wouldn’t hurt.

 

He shook his head violently and tried to pull away. “I don’t hurt  
you.”

 

Buffy took his hands in hers again. “Spike, Look at me. I can help   
you.”

 

Spike wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I could never ask. Not after . . .  
I’m a bad man.”

 

“No! Spike, I’ll help get you through this,” she reassured him. She  
released his hands and got to her feet, gazing down at him in admiration.  
“I know what you did. Lorne told me everything.”

 

Buffy gestured to Angel. “. “I’m through with working blind. We need   
to get cleaned up, and bring everyone up to speed,” she said suddenly business-like   
again. “You!” she rounded on Illyria. “Why are you here? Aside from getting   
in my way, what is it you do?”

 

“I have chosen to observe.”

 

“’You _observe_? What kind of answer is that?”

 

“You have power. You would give your advantage away. Yet you choose  
to fight. I wish to understand this contradiction.”

 

“Understand this. I am _not_ your experiment.”

 

“You are arrogant. My pet chooses well.”

 

“Your ‘pet’? _Wesley_?” Buffy laughed.

 

“My Wesley is my guide to humanity’s stinking chaos. I chose the white   
haired one to be my pet.”

 

“Spike is not yours to choose.”

 

“He has made his choice.”

 

Buffy bit back a rejoinder. Illyria was right. Spike_ had_ made   
his choice. It was up to the rest of them to make sure that it hadn’t been  
in vain. “Lorne,” she called down the stairwell. “Take Wesley where you  
can watch him and this . . . “ she waved a hand at Illyria, “new blue breed  
of Watcher.“ Buffy took Spike by the elbow and encouraged him to stand.  
“Need to find you something to eat,” she said softly.

 

Angel took Spike’s weight on his shoulder and together he and Buffy  
helped him down the staircase. “So, he said, “you going to let me in on  
your next move?”

 

“Please, Angel. Don’t start with the ‘_it’s my town_’ crap. This  
is too big. It’s gone global.”

 

Angel grimaced at her, shamefaced. “I wasn’t gonna . . .”

 

Buffy shrugged her acceptance of the unspoken apology “I think it’s  
time we joined forces and shared what we have. You have Willow to thank  
for _anyone_ on your team coming out of that alley alive. You  
can do that by agreeing to listen to whatever she and Giles come up with  
when they get back from their planning meeting.”

 

 

 

   
  
---|---


	5. 4And by and by my Soul Returned to Me

  
  
  
  
[](index.html)

 

[Home](index.html)

 

* * *

  
[  
Fanfic Home](Fanfic.html)

* * *

  
[Soul  
Searching Home](Soul%20Searching%20Home.html)

 

 

 

|   
Soul  
Searching

 

________________________________________________________

 

 

**Chapter  
4:** And by and by my Soul returned to me

 

The harsh neon light glinted off the implements hanging from the ceiling,  
accentuating the grime that covered everything else in the Hyperion’s  
kitchen. The blades sparkled, throwing sherds of brilliance into the gloom  
below. Someone had cleaned and sharpened them. Why? Angel stared at the  
rack. _Two vacant hooks._ He narrowed his eyes in thought

 

The kitchen floor was covered in recently delivered boxes, most of  
them empty. Angel had agreed that the Hyperion was to be the base for the  
combined Slayer/Vampires-with-souls operations and he’d offered to help  
Buffy unpack, stowing provisions in places she couldn’t reach, glad of  
the thinking space the activity afforded.

 

“Top cupboard, first shelf.” Buffy handed him a box of chocolate chip   
cookies.

 

Angel opened the cupboard door and found a place for the box beside   
the peanut butter variety. He had to admit, if only to himself, that he   
was having difficulty adjusting to the idea of working with her. He’d become   
too used to running his own team and didn’t yet know how he was going to   
handle moving aside from the position as sole leader.

 

And then there was the problem of Spike. No one knew how the loss of  
his memories of loving Buffy would affect him in the long term. Nevertheless,   
Angel marvelled yet again at the speed of Spike’s apparent recovery. During   
his disintegration in the lobby, he’d been barely coherent. Now, less than   
30 minutes later, after a shower and copious mugs of blood, he was back   
to his old acerbic self – almost. With Buffy’s arrival in the kitchen, he’d   
disappeared into the walk-in larder and was rummaging through the freshly   
stocked shelves.

 

“You see that?” Angel whispered to Buffy. “How does he do it? Thirty  
minutes of screaming and yelling and he’s coping with major memory loss.  
Six weeks crazy in a school basement and he deals with having a soul!”  
He stared at the larder door. “It took me decades.”

 

“It wasn’t that easy, believe me,” Buffy replied. She raised her head   
from the carton of supplies. “And why did no one tell me he was back?”

 

“Before or after The Immortal?” Angel retorted. “He said he’d contact   
you when he was ready. I guess by the time he was, it was too late.”

 

Buffy flushed and they stood in silence for a while avoiding one another’s  
eyes.

 

“He never even called,” Buffy said finally. She placed the empty box  
inside the stack heaped beside the rear exit and turned to a pile of freshly  
washed Tea Towels. With a deep sigh, she began folding them, piling them  
neatly on the counter.

 

"Neither did you," replied Angel, watching the displacement activity  
in which she was engaged. "All I got was a '_no one trusts you_’,  
from Andrew."

 

"Taking over Evil Inc. What was I supposed to think?" Buffy argued,   
smoothing the white and blue-checked cotton in her hands. “Besides . .   
.” She paused. Angel’s scowl reminded her of their last conversation about   
her feelings for both vampires. “He didn’t believe me, you know . . . at   
the Hellmouth.” She lowered her eyes, hiding the tears that were forming.

 

Angel’s face softened. “He did,” he said quietly. “But he didn’t want   
it to affect what you were going to do.”

 

Buffy pursed her lips. “Deciding what was best for me?”

 

Angel folded his arms. “If you believe that, then you really didn’t   
know him all that well. He came close to killing me over you after he recorporealised.”

 

Buffy looked up. “Yeah?” she said, hopefully. “I mean . . . not the   
killing you, obviously. Not that I haven’t come close to doing that myself   
a couple of times . . .”

 

Angel noticed the fleeting expression of optimism. “Maybe we should   
send him away?”

 

Buffy’s face hardened. “Not gonna happen. Not again.”

 

“Buffy, you’ve seen what happens to him when you’re around. When someone  
loses his memories, he becomes a different person. I know all about that.”

 

“No! We need him here.”

 

“_Wes_ needs him here. We need _you_ . . .”

 

“Shit!” The sound of breaking glass from inside the larder accompanying   
Spike’s expletive brought their squabble to an abrupt end.

 

“What are you doing in there?” Angel called to Spike.

 

“Finding something decent to drink,” came the muffled reply.

 

“You won’t find anything in there,” Angel dropped his voice “I hope.”   
He turned anxiously to Buffy. “He heard us. Tell me you didn’t stock up   
on drink.”

 

Buffy scowled at him and opened her mouth to respond, closing it again  
immediately as Spike emerged from the larder clutching a dusty bottle.

 

Angel recognised one of Wesley’s finest malts, a present from the Old   
Country he’d said it was; to be opened on a special occasion, like a wake.   
“Spike, before you open that and get thoroughly drunk, how much do you remember  
now?” He tried the diplomatic approach.

 

Spike perched on the edge of one of the kitchen work surfaces. “It’s  
coming back in short bursts,” he said, unscrewing the cap of the single  
malt. “Like the bloody trailers for Passions. Only making even _less_  
sense.” He laughed and took a swig from the bottle. “Bloke burns up saving  
the world just to be brought back and for what?” He stared into the space  
over Angel’s head. “Some tin pot god’s idea of a joke, that’s what.”

 

Buffy folded the last item and picked up the pile of towels in front  
of her. Spotting a door marked ‘linen’, she crossed the room and paused  
in front of it. She swung her head back towards Spike.

 

“You don’t remember why you fought for your soul, but you remember  
saving the world?”

 

“Don’t pick and choose the episodes, Slayer, the reruns schedule themselves.”   
He took another gulp of whiskey. “’Sides, not altogether convinced about  
the soul-having. Don’t feel any different.” He looked over at Angel. “As  
flies to wanton boys are we to the' gods; they kill us for their sport.  
Well sod that.” He stared at the linen in Buffy’s hands. “You doing the  
housekeeping now? Thought we had minions for that.”

 

Buffy bit back a response and opened the linen closet, clamping the   
towels under her chin with one hand and reaching for the light switch with  
the other. As she groped along the interior wall, a figure, clutching a  
knife, launched itself at her from the gloomy depths.

 

Before Angel could move, Spike launched himself from the worktop, pushing   
Buffy out of the way and sending the man sprawling onto the floor with   
one swift blow. Spike's hand automatically clutched at his head. "No pain!"  
he cried.

 

He flashed a look at Angel who smirked an '_I told you_' at him.

 

 

"No _chip_. Right," Spike chortled. He offered his hand to help  
Buffy to her feet but withdrew it rapidly before she could take it.

 

Angel hauled the man up off the floor by his collar.

 

"What the hell are you doing in my linen closet? _Our_ linen closet,"  
he corrected swiftly at Buffy’s raised eyebrows.

 

“I . . . I was hungry. I found some food and was . . . ”

 

"Looking for napkins?" Angel finished threateningly.

 

The man’s face contorted in fear and he shrank back into his jacket,  
flinching in anticipation. Angel released his grip but stayed close, towering  
over the lightly built figure.

 

The man relaxed slightly. "Hey Man, I thought this place was deserted.  
Needed a place to hide when all the craziness started." He swung his head  
to each of them in turn. “You’re that Mr Angel guy. I d…d…didn’t know  
this was your p…p… place, I swear,” he stammered addressing Angel.

 

The double doors swung open and the man gasped fearfully. Illyria,  
still bloodied from combat, strode towards him, carrying a meat cleaver.

 

"Oh God, Oh my God. I'm gonna die," he squealed, sinking to the floor   
and covering his head with his arms.

 

"I am no longer your god," Illyria hung the cleaver on the ceiling  
rack and regarded the figure cowering at her feet, coldly. "This one is  
of no consequence. I would not waste the edge of a fine sacrificial blade  
on one such as he."

 

"He just tried to kill Buffy. That's worth a lot of consequences,"  
Spike responded. He glanced up at the utensils hanging from the stainless  
steel hooks. “Sacrificial blades? Is that what they are. And here’s me  
thinking Cheffie used them to slice and dice for the casserole pot.”

 

Illyria regarded him coldly. “I know nothing of this ‘_casserole_.’   
My Wesley does not regard it to be of any import. He merely asked that I  
return the blade to its keeper in the room of the sacrificial furnace.”

 

"You're _them_,” the man gibbered. “ But I'm not the one you want.   
I don't know where he is. I don’t know _anything_!"

 

Spike grabbed the man’s arms and peered into his face. "You're what's'isname  
from accounts, _Miser Maurice_, yeah that’s it." He grabbed him by  
the lapels and dragged him to his feet. "You owe me money, Mo!"

 

"You _know_ him?" Angel asked incredulously.

 

"Yeah, played poker with him enough times to know he's a lying bastard.   
He knows plenty."

 

Spike pushed Maurice over to Angel who flattened him against the fridge   
door.

 

"Does he now?" Angel said morphing into gameface. "Now isn’t that interesting.  
Talk to me!"

 

Maurice choked, and paled at the sight of Angel's vampface. "They'll  
kill me if I tell you."

 

"_I'll_ kill you if you don't." Angel shoved him hard against  
the refrigerator, denting it with the ferocity of the impact." So what's  
it gonna be, Maurice? Now? Or maybe later, depending on how fast you can  
run? Your choice."

 

Maurice swallowed nervously, and swung his head from Angel to Spike   
to Buffy and, finally Illyria.

 

"They're after the boy.” Maurice lowered his eyes. “Connor."

 

Angel recoiled at the name and dropped him. Maurice seized the opportunity   
and made a dash for the rear door. Spike started after him but was stopped  
in mid-stride by Angel’s voice.

 

"No, Let him go." Angel intoned flatly slumping against the fridge.

 

Spike frowned. Something about the name resonated against the back  
of his skull. "Who's Connor?"

 

Angel didn’t answer, looking instead at Buffy who had moved to his  
side.

 

Illyria broke the silence "The one who binds Angel to this world."

 

 

Spike studied Angel’s face. The look of desolation and despair was  
familiar somehow but he couldn’t recall when he’d seen it before. He clenched  
his jaw in frustration and turned his attention to Buffy. Her freshly  
washed hair fell to her shoulders, soft and golden, a glowing curtain caressing  
her features. Her face, bruised and battered still, bore the scars of the  
recent battle; _a Warrior_. Spike’s expression softened as his  
heart gave a lurch. _God she was beautiful_. He closed his eyes  
for an instant against the rising tide of confusion that swept towards him  
on the sentiment.

 

He swallowing hard, driving the sensation away, and opened his eyes.  
"Thought that was the Slayer," he said hoarsely.

 

Buffy smiled sadly. "No. Not me, Spike. Angel's son."

 

 

 

   
  
---|---


	6. 5Never Dying Soul to Save

  
  
  
  
[](index.html)

 

[Home](index.html)

 

* * *

  
[  
Fanfic Home](Fanfic.html)

* * *

  
[Soul   
Searching Home](Soul%20Searching%20Home.html)

 

 

 

|    
Soul  
Searching

 

________________________________________________________

 

 

  
**Chapter 5: ** A Never Dying Soul to Save

 

The fog had returned to Los Angeles, first to the bay, where it flowed   
under the pier across the eddies, and swirled on the remains of the ebbing   
tide; into the docks, where it rolled among the tiers of shipping and the  
waterside pollution of the dirty city. It lay out on the yards, hovering   
in the stacks of the cargo ships, drooping on the gunwales of barges and   
small boats. It crawled into the eyes and throats of the matelots loading   
the last of the containers onto an ocean bound carrier; streamed into the  
stuffy cabin of the skipper, asleep on his bunk, the afternoon siesta a  
preparation for the long night-watch ahead. Fog everywhere, searching, probing,  
slithering towards the city on the humid air, hunting an enemy, driving  
the daylight before it to a premature dusk.

 

The oppressive heat squeezed itself between the thin cracks of the   
window blind of the hotel room, the last beams of sunlight reduced to thin  
slivers in the dust-laden air. Illyria watched the motes glimmering in  
the shafts of light as they made their way towards the motionless figure   
seated in the armchair. Even on a stifling, unhealthy afternoon such as   
this, the blinds were closed and the room lit by candlelight until the electricity   
could be reconnected, no necro-tempered glass here to protect those for who  
the sun was a lethal weapon.

 

Spike lay sprawled on the small bed beside the wall, his arms across   
his eyes. Whether he was asleep or not, the other occupants of the room   
couldn’t tell. He'd arrived earlier for 'a little chat with _The Green   
Man_' who watched him anxiously for further signs of the instability   
he'd displayed in the hotel lobby. Throughout their conversation, Illyria   
and Wesley remained silent; each locked in an internal discourse of their   
own.

 

Illyria reached out and placed a hand in the stream of shimmering  
specks filtering through the blinds. She watched as the beam disintegrated,  
scattering glistening atoms across the surface of her leather clad arm,  
light sensitive particles travelling along the neural pathways, stimulating  
electrochemical activity inside her head.

 

"I am constrained by this shell, and yet I still perceive that which   
beyond the cognisance of the swarm of misery that is humanity." She stared   
into the space between her and Wesley. "Wretched vermin parasites breeding   
in these ruined shelters that are no more than prisons for ones such as I.  
You shut yourselves inside . . . in cages of bone, in rooms of brick, with  
mere slats of lense and glass through which you attempt to discern reality.  
"

 

“You lied to me.” Wesley spoke for the first time since Spike had  
entered Fred's old room.

 

“Is that not what you asked?”

 

“You said we’d be together . . . that I’d be where _she_ was  
. . .” Wesley stopped, his voice breaking into a soft sob.

 

“ You returned to her place here. Surely this is where she is to be  
found?” Illyria crossed the room and contemplated the wall beside the  
bed. "These walls confine you, just as this bag of sticks stifles the  
glory that was once mine." She frowned in concentration as the thin mist  
obscuring her vision cleared. “There are hieroglyphs, impenetrable and  
meaningless to me, a web designed to deceive and entangle." Her head twitched,  
so imperceptibly that Lorne, watching her as closely as he did Wesley,  
missed it. "Hypermassively parallel-processed by human neural nets, causally  
dislocated by the logic paths that must traverse Ant Country, and therefore  
cannot be mapped."

 

Wesley's eyes opened wide and he looked at her for the first time.

 

"Illyria?" He rose from the chair and joined her beside the bed, peering   
into her eyes, searching for evidence of what he’d heard in what she’d   
just said. "Fred?" Wesley narrowed his eyes and turned from her to study   
the wall instead. "What do you see?"

 

Illyria swung angrily on Lorne, still seated in the chair opposite   
the one Wesley had vacated. “How can I be restored to where I wish to be  
when you have returned my guide to me unable to help _himself_,” she  
asked, her normally icy tone replaced by one that struck him with the  
ferocity of the thunder lurking outside the window in the oppressively humid  
air. “Humankind evolved from vampire-like parasites, insects that feasted  
on beings greater than they, their senses centred on blood and taste and  
feelings.” She turned to Wesley once more. Your sensory experiences confuse  
and conceal, just as the fog that moves towards us screens and filters,  
denying you clear sight of what you seek."

 

At the word 'vampire', Spike sat up and watched the fog, slipping  
into the room along the fading rays of sunlight, the luminous grains twirling   
like a movie projector, whirring in undifferentiated phosphor-lit blankness,   
performing their destiny. The image transported him to another place, another  
time. There a calculated nostalgia engine discharged its contents, memories  
of an earlier media era, one of bright bulbs, photochemical emulsions, reflective  
surfaces, and dust motes swirling into life, into light. There, where Drusilla  
made him, before the first film projector ever created the magic, _his_  
destiny was revealed.

 

"_I see you. A man surrounded by fools who cannot see his strength,  
his vision, his glory. That and burning baby fish swimming all around  
your head_."

 

Spike turned his head away from the ghostly figure of Drusilla forming   
in the mist gathering in front of the window. He scanned the wall, his   
face contorted with the effort of trying to catch a memory just beyond his   
reach. _Something about Fred and these walls_.

 

"No, not these walls, the _other_ walls!" Spike vocalised the   
flash of intuition, to capture it, record it in the memory of the others   
so that it might not be lost again.

 

The first roll of thunder struck the window, causing it to rattle  
in its frame. All eyes turned from Spike as a second percussive shock shook   
the walls. The sound of raised voices, swiftly followed by the crash of a  
door slamming in the lobby below drove Lorne to his feet and out onto the  
landing outside the room.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

 

 

"That was close. Too close. One more red light on Wilshire Boulevard   
and I'd've been the main course on Big Bad Wolf's dinner table," gasped   
the slight red-haired figure leaning against the entrance doors, hugging   
a backpack to her chest.

 

"This one brims with power." Illyria's appraisal carried a note of   
envy. "She will rend in two the curtains that cloak my Wesley's vision.

 

Willow glanced up at her, giving Lorne a small smile of recognition  
as she did so. "Hi all," she said shyly to the crowd that had gathered  
on hearing her dramatic entrance. She handed Buffy her backpack. "You should   
lock the doors," she said rapidly, "and the windows. 'Cos I'm pretty sure   
I was followed from the airport, and whoever it was that was after Angel   
. . . they're _really_

 

At a signal from Buffy, several slayers hurried to do as she'd asked.  
As the final bolts slid home on the main doors, there was a thunderous  
hammering on them from outside.

 

"Let me in! Let me in!" a voice shouted.

 

Willow pursed her lips. "Oooh, I know this one," she quipped. "Not   
by the hair on my chinny chin chin," she yelled at the door. She raised   
her arms and began a defensive spell, "Enemies, fly and fall. Circling   
arms, raise a wall . . ."

 

"I'm not the enemy." The frantic response interrupted her spell. "Tell   
Angel, I got down off the fence."

 

Angel appeared at Willow's side and began unbolting the door.

 

"What are you _doing_?" Buffy grabbed his hand to prevent him   
opening the final deadlock.

 

"It's Whistler," replied Angel. "He's on our side - usually."

 

Buffy raised her eyebrows and held her hands up in surrender. "Your  
house, your decision," she said evenly. "But if he starts with the cryptic  
comments again, I get first shot at him, right?"

 

Angel gave her a lopsided grin, opened the door and dragged Whistler   
inside. " Willow, you can carry on," he said, keeping a firm grip on his   
unexpected visitor.

 

"You mean start again," grumbled Willow. " The spell's been interrupted."   
She raised her arms once more. “Enemies, fly and fall. Circling arms, raise  
a wall. _Caerimonia Minerva, saepio, saepire, saepsi._"

 

The bolts flew back into position as the first wave of the hail struck   
the windows, washing the fog away, but leaving the air only marginally   
less humid.

 

Illyria made her way to the foot of the stairs and regarded Willow   
with a slight tilt of the head. "Why do you persist in this deceit?" she   
asked. " You have no need of words. The barrier was raised even before   
you spoke. Your power lies beyond speech, beyond thought."

 

Willow glared at her. "TMI," she said stonily. She gestured at the   
young slayers. "The children need the illusion of the ritual."

 

"You would resort to riddle to confuse me, just as the walls are beyond  
my ability to decipher them." Illyria moved to stand in front of her,  
their faces mere inches apart. She reached a hand to touch Willow's head  
but withdrew it as if stung by something invisible to all but the two of  
them. "This power. It is that which protected the one called Buffy in the  
mighty battle that should have been our last." Illyria bowed her head slightly.   
"In this time, in this place, truly, you are what is needed."

 

Whistler gave a slight cough. "You going to introduce us?" he asked,   
shrugging Angel's hand off his shoulder. "Name's Whistler. Some weather   
we're havin' huh?" He removed his fedora and scoured the lobby. "You got   
any coffee?" he asked Angel. "I could murder a dog."

 

Angel shot Buffy a warning look as she moved towards Whistler clenching  
her fist.

 

"You didn't come here to sample the 'cordon bletch'," Buffy snapped.   
"So why don't you tell us why you're here and I won't have to punch you   
on the nose."

 

Whistler ignored the threat. "You done good," he told her. "And _you_,"   
he turned to Angel, "you ain't doin' so bad either, all things considerin'.   
Nice recovery from the mess Holtz left you."

 

He swaggered over to Spike, who had joined Lorne and Illyria. "But   
_you_ \- you traded the one thing you had goin' in your favour."

 

"We don't need this," Buffy's voice cut across the flow of Whistler's  
monologue. "You got somethin' to say - say it. Fast. Willow . . ." she  
made a door opening motion.

 

Whistler grinned at her. "You're still really mad at me for being  
right about Angelus and the sword, aren't you?" He turned to Angel. "You  
gonna let your ex throw me out and risk losing a lead to the one person  
who can make a difference in all this?" He walked around Angel and Buffy,  
glancing at the others as he did so. "Gotta say. Not the smartest move  
setting up camp here. Didn't take too long to find ya'. How long d'ya think  
it'll take The Forces to send in Quroroß?"

 

"Never heard of him." Spike spoke for the first time since Willow's  
arrival.

 

"Keeper of the Gate, he who will open that which is Pulon Odoß.  
‘_Then the Old Ones will walk once again, where we walk now. When the  
stars are right_’ or, more precisely, '_when the spaces between the  
stars are more wide' and chaos will prevail_." Wesley made his way slowly  
down the stairs, an open book in his hand. “We must find the other Keeper,  
the one who was charged with closing the Gate here on earth." "Willow," he  
said nodding at her. "I believe we have need of your considerable talents."

 

 

   
  
---|---


	7. 6In Your Patience Posses Ye Your Souls

  
  
  
  
[](index.html)

 

[Home](index.html)

 

* * *

  
[  
Fanfic Home](Fanfic.html)

* * *

  
[Soul   
Searching Home](Soul%20Searching%20Home.html)

 

 

 

|    
Soul  
Searching

 

________________________________________________________

 

 

**Chapter 6:** In Your Patience Posses Ye Your Souls

 

 

Illyria watched the end of the blind cord swinging against  
window frame, caught in the slight flow of evening air blowing into the  
office behind the Hyperion's reception desk. Silence hung heavy in the   
room and, despite the small breeze, stillness pervaded the small space, as  
though time was holding its breath.

 

Click.

 

The early afternoon had witnessed a flurry of activity following Whistler's  
evaluation of the hotel as a location for the joint-headquarters. A series   
of phone calls to Giles instigated the swift evacuation of the injured   
to a 'safe' wing of the local hospital; they also brought disappointment   
for Buffy when Giles told her he couldn't leave Cleveland any time soon.

 

Spike's remark "Good thing too," had resulted in a shouting match  
that exhausted itself only when Angel steered the debate about Giles'  
merits as an ally around to possible alternative accommodation. Illyria  
knew that Spike wasn't ready to offer his basement flat, not yet at any  
rate. She judged he couldn't bear the thought of being cooped up in a small  
space with The Slayer until the turmoil in his mind had settled into something   
less traumatic.

 

Click.

 

Buffy glanced at Angel, opened her mouth to speak and closed it again  
swallowing hard. Only Illyria noticed the way she flexed her fingers,  
extending and curling them into her palms, regaining the control she'd  
lost in her argument with Spike.

 

Click

 

Buffy returned to the maps that she’d been studying, piecing together  
information Whistler had given her with Angel’s knowledge of the sewers  
and new intelligence from Giles. She was searching for a route that would  
take Angel, Spike and Illyria from the Hyperion to the ruins of Wolfram  
and Hart with minimal risk from whoever, or whatever, had followed Willow  
from the airport.

 

Click.

 

Illyria shifted her attention to Angel. He sat beside Buffy, motionless  
and expressionless since his diplomatic diversion of Spike's ill-timed  
outburst. He hadn't mentioned his own pressing desire to begin searching  
for Connor. Illyria was intrigued by his restraint.

 

Click.

 

A moth flew in through the open window, and battered itself ineffectually   
against the lampshade in an attempt to reach the light. Illyria inclined   
her head towards it and listened to the rustling of the wings. "I still   
hear the song of life," she mused, "_in the movement of living things and  
in the passage of linear time_" She turned her head towards Lorne. "_But  
no longer the sound of the green. That has passed to another_."

 

 

Rustle.

 

Click.

 

Lorne’s eyes flicked towards Illyria. He gave a small nod of acknowledgement   
before grimacing in recognition of his new role.

 

Click.

 

Rustle.

 

The moth veered away from the light and made its way back towards  
the open window. It faltered for a moment before negotiating its way  
across the window box full of dandelions and chickweed. Lorne watched  
the insect's progress. How swiftly the weeds had colonised and dominated  
the tiny space, once tended by his own hands, bent on bringing order and  
light to the darkest corners of the city that had adopted him. Fear and  
uncertainty pulsated from the former Karaoke Host as he wondered if he was  
really cut out for the task with which the Forces of light had entrusted  
him.

 

Click.

 

A sudden movement from Spike broke the stillness. He tapped his fingers  
rapidly on the desk in front of him, before jumping to his feet. He began  
to pace. Like a caged animal, his loping, feline stride measured the breadth  
of the office again and again, impatient for escape from its confines.

 

"Haven't they finished up there yet?" he asked jerking his head in   
the direction of the upper floor. "You'd think Glinda and Head Boy could   
have worked something out by now. How long've they been at it?" He grasped   
Angel's wrist and peered at his watch.

 

Angel snatched his arm away. "Quit complaining, Spike, they'll be  
finished when they're finished."

 

"Well, why can't we go _do_ something while we wait?" Spike shot  
a glance at Angel. "What about that boy of yours. Doesn’t he need finding  
_before_ Evil catches up with him? You finished that route,  
Slayer?"

 

Angel stiffened and looked across at Buffy. She rose wearily to her  
feet and moved towards the door. “I need to check something with Giles  
before . . .”

 

A loud crash from the upper floor was followed by the sound of splintering   
glass. All eyes swung in the direction of Fred's room directly above their   
heads, bringing to an abrupt end to what Buffy was about to say.

 

"Sounded like the window," observed Spike.

 

"Uh - do you think someone should go . . .?" Lorne asked rising from   
his chair.

 

"Wesley said they'd call if they needed help," Angel replied. He cocked  
his head, straining to hear for any signs of distress through the ceiling.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

 

"Sorry!" Willow grimaced at Wesley. "The opening spell kinda rebounded   
on the window."

 

Wesley sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Not to worry," he  
said kindly, "I have every confidence . . ."

 

"This is not the kind of stuff I'm used to dealing with," Willow said  
solemnly. "There's more here than just concealing magic. There's some  
kind of manipulation of time going on. This is big, cosmic stuff. I don't  
think I'm going to be able to break through by myself. I'm not even sure  
I should try." She cast a sympathetic glance at the former watcher as  
he sank forlornly onto the bed. He clasped his hands together on his knees.

 

Willow sat down beside him and touched his shoulder gently. "I know  
what it's like," she said softly.

 

Wesley raised his eyes and looked at her for an instant before staring   
at the floor once more.

 

"To lose someone, just when you’ve found them again," Willow went  
on. "It's the most terrible thing in the world. And you'd do anything,  
even go against the forces of nature, _anything_ to get them back.  
But you can't . . ."

 

"Fred wasn't taken by natural forces." Wesley cut Willow off and looked  
at her steadily this time. "She died horribly, and slowly, and . . .  
_bravely_, by the design of a merciless mystical being."

 

Willow examined the walls again. "I can sense _something_ there,"   
she conceded, "but the way through is blocked. I need more to go on." She  
paused, unwilling to broach a subject that had once been so painful between  
her and Buffy. "Do you know where you went," she asked finally, "when  
you were dead?"

 

Wesley reached for the book that lay beside him on the coverlet. "I  
was only gone a little while," he answered. "It was dark. There wasn't  
a sense of being in any particular place," he gazed at the walls, "more  
a sense of not being finished, of having something that needed doing, if  
only I could remember what. A voice called me into the light, naming me  
'Heimedall', telling me my work was not yet done." He gave his head a small  
shake and sighed again. "And then I was here, in this room, clutching this  
manuscript."

 

Willow twisted her head trying to read the cover. "May I?" she asked   
holding out her hand.

 

Wesley handed her the leather-bound tome. "Watcher's Diary," Willow  
read aloud. "Observations of the Soul named Heimdall - _crossed through_   
\- Wesley Wyndam-Price - _substituted_." Willow blinked slowly. "Interesting.   
Do you remember writing any of it?"

 

"I haven't had time to go through it all yet," Wesley replied holding  
his hand out for the book's return. "The final sections _are_ in  
my handwriting; the research I undertook at Hamilton's suggestion, just  
before Angel decided to take out the Circle of the Black Thorn." Wesley  
opened the volume at the first page. "But there are many more contributions  
by many different hands, beginning with Heimdall's own; the one I read aloud  
on the staircase."

 

Willow squinted at the archaic print Wesley held before her. "It's   
not in English!" she cried. "Why is it never in English?"

 

Wesley gave her a lop-sided grin. "A cynic would say it's the Powers'  
way of leaving us open to being misled, but I rather think it's because  
the writer wasn't an Englishman."

 

 

 

\-------------------------------------------------------

 

"Wyndam-Price is so easily deceived." In an upper room in City Hall,   
Rutherford Sirk looked down at the Eleanor Chambers fountain in the square   
below. "There really was no need to remove him from Wolfram and Hart to   
mislead Angel about the Shanshu. Price would have misinterpreted the text   
we provided himself if his previous track record is anything to go by."   
Sirk turned round and addressed the figure seated at the table behind him.   
"What do the cards reveal about the _other_ vampire with a soul, now   
that the Senior Partners have shown a renewed interest in gaining his services?"

 

A thin, lace-clad hand turned the first card in the centre of the  
Celtic cross pattern. "The King of Cups. My naughty boy, what _have_  
you been doing since I lost you?" Drusilla smiled vacantly up at Sirk.  
"I lost three Daddies. Did you know?" She swayed in her seat, moving to  
an unheard song. "Three Daddies," she intoned. "The second one killed my  
first Daddy. And then I lost the 'Our Father' to the darkness." Drusilla  
picked up the next card. "Hm - mm," she giggled, "then I lost my boy." She  
turned the card. "Queen of Swords. Naughty girl, _she_ stole both my  
boys away. The Father, the son . . ." she paused. "I forget what comes next."

 

A flash of rainbow-coloured light from the square below caught Drusilla's  
attention and she wandered away from the table to look out of the necro-tinted   
window at the fountain. It formed a dandelion-clock pattern in the centre   
of the marble circle, throwing rainbows into the sunlit spray. Drusilla   
clapped her hands excitedly. "Oooh, such pretty flowers! I used to play   
with the dandelions when I was little," she said. "Me Mum told me not to bring  
'em indoors; they'd make me pee the bed, she said." Drusilla laughed and  
began to sing "Piss on Lee, piss on Lee. Dunno why she called me Lee though,  
my name was . . ." she stopped again, staring into Sirk's eyes until he was  
forced to drop his own and turn from her. "I forget, " Drusilla continued   
brightly. "Daddy made me forget so many things. Grandmother says it's 'cos   
he was jealous. Jealous of what I could see. But _that's_ not why."   
She began to sway again to the soundtrack in her head. " I used to play ever  
so many games with flowers, with my Sweet William." She began to sing again.  
"Mummy had a baby and its head popped off." She raised her thumb quickly  
and snapped the flower head off an invisible dandelion with her nail. "And  
now all the family is lost, and Princess is all alone.”

 

Sirk frowned and appealed to his colleague. "Remind me again why we  
need this lunatic's help," he murmured.

 

"The body that has commissioned the rebuilding of Wolfram and Hart's   
operation here in LA is in receipt of intelligence that suggests William   
the Bloody is in a vulnerable state at present and _she_," the speaker   
gestured at Drusilla, " is best placed to take advantage of that vulnerability."

 

"In other words, you're not telling me," Sirk said haughtily.

 

"Mr Sirk, you are here as caretaker until a suitable replacement can   
be found to the former CEO. Your job is to oversee operations, temporarily,  
without asking questions. You will be suitably rewarded, and, believe me,  
you are much better off not knowing certain things."

 

"Oh, I believe you, Councillor," replied Sirk. "I just don't know  
if I should trust you."

 

"Better not," was the enigmatic reply.

 

\----------------------------------------------------

 

"It's not that I don't trust you.” Buffy glared at Spike. “Giles can   
cope without me. He's got Andrew."

 

Spike snorted. "Just because the little squirt found the balls to  
double cross us once, doesn't mean he kept them. Giles is right, if there's  
trouble in Cleveland, you should be there."

 

"Oh so all of a sudden Giles is right? What happened to ‘That Wanker’?   
Or ‘Mr Needs-Someone-Else-to-Do-His-Dirty-Work’?"

 

 

 

 

 

Angel stepped between the combative couple. "We can't stay here,"  
he said evenly. "The team needs organising somewhere else. Giles suggests   
Cleveland."

 

Buffy turned her scorn on Angel. "When did you get so reasonable about   
agreeing with Giles?"

 

"When _you_ got so blinkered about the difference between what  
you _should_ do and what you _want_ to do!" Angel shot  
back at her.

 

Before he realised what he was doing, Spike sprang to Buffy's defence.   
"That'd be round about the time you sold everyone out for Connor," he said,  
spinning his Grandsire round to face him. "Yeah," he sneered at Angel's  
look of surprise, "Lorne filled me in on a _lot_ of things."

 

Angel's shoulders slumped in defeat. He glanced at Buffy from under  
downcast eyes. "I'm sorry."

 

Buffy reached out and touched his arm. "It's OK. I understand. If  
it had been Dawn . . ." she trailed off and cleared her throat of the  
emotion that had built inside her. "That's_ why_ I understand that  
you have to stay and look for Connor."

 

Illyria plucked a dandelion flower from among the majority that had  
run to seed. She examined the petals. "Dents de Lion," she announced.  
"The flower is well named." She turned towards the three figures standing  
before the open window. "My Wesley will not leave the room until the riddle  
of the walls is solved. The Red Witch has pledged to help him. I will remain  
alongside my guide to this world."

 

Lorne levered himself from his chair and approached the former God   
King. "And I should stay 'til the last curtain call," he said, his voice   
trembling a little, "and as long as the hooch lasts in the bar, I'll mix   
up the best bunch of cocktails to see me through the run." He threw an   
arm over Angel's shoulder. " Why don't we send Whistler and the slayers   
over to Giles? Whaddya think, Big Guy? "

 

"Once he's told us where we can find this 'mysterious one who will   
make a difference'." Buffy picked up Lorne's lead eagerly.

 

"In the meantime, what say we go sift through the wreckage of the  
offices formerly known as Wolfram and Hart, as planned, and see if we  
can pick up a lead on your boy?" Spike offered Angel the only sort of apology  
of which he was capable. "'Sides, I need to replace the coat," he indicated  
a heap of leather in the corner waste bin. "Seem to remember a promise of  
ten from our Italian friend with the double helping of bountiful assets."

 

"I marked the route on this." Buffy handed Spike a sheet of paper.   
"I’ll make a start on Whistler while you guys are across town,” she said   
opening the door. “_Bountiful assets_?" she whispered to Angel as   
he headed for the rear exit.

 

Angel shrugged "Search me."

 

\-----------------------------------------------------

 

Back in Civic Hall, Drusilla turned the next two cards in the cross.   
"The Ace of Cups - Love! My sweet William told Daddy ours was a forever   
love." She gazed wistfully out of the window. "It was 'til she came and   
stole him away." She pressed her hand to her heart as she looked at the   
second card. "Seven of swords." She sighed and ran her hand along her cheekbone  
and across her brow. "My poor boy. Someone's stolen away his love, tisk,  
tisk. How will he live?" She turned the next card and gasped with pleasure.  
She clapped her hands with delight. "The Devil! Oh joy, my Spike will come  
home, back to the dark, to Princess.”

 

   
  
---|---


	8. 7Soul Unto Soul Glooms Darkly

  
  
  
  
[](index.html)

 

[Home](index.html)

 

* * *

  
[  
Fanfic Home](Fanfic.html)

* * *

  
[Soul   
Searching Home](Soul%20Searching%20Home.html)

 

 

 

|    
Soul  
Searching

 

________________________________________________________

 

 

**Chapter 7: **Soul Unto Soul Glooms Darkly

 

Buffy was taking a coffee break, having temporarily given up trying  
to find Whistler in the labyrinth of the Hyperion’s corridors. She sat  
alone in the hotel entrance lobby, listening to the young English slayer  
who had disappeared into the kitchen earlier in the evening, to ’do a spot   
of baking’ to satisfy her sugar craving. As she worked, the girl was singing   
along to her CD player, with a sweet, pure, but untrained voice. Buffy caught  
snatches of songs, none of which she recognised, each time the girl passed  
near the doorway.

 

The smell of warm baking wafted into the room as the kitchen doors   
swung open with the final words of another obscure piece of Brit Pop.

 

“Ta da!”

 

A plate bearing pieces of moist cake, a strong scent of lemon drifting   
upwards from the gleaming icing along the inner edge of each slice, appeared   
on the table in front of Buffy.

 

“Lemon Drizzle, courtesy of Jane Asher – and my Mum’s Red Cross parcel,”   
said the young woman, with a tinkling laugh. “Thought you’d like some with  
your coffee.” She indicated the pot Buffy had made earlier.

 

Buffy smiled up at her and, noting the CD headphones still firmly  
clamped in place, just nodded her thanks.

 

“You girls mind if I join you?”

 

“You sure your name’s not Wimpy?” Buffy asked without looking up.  
“You do that appearing thing anytime there’s food.”

 

Whistler grinned at her and poured himself a mug of coffee, its comforting   
aroma mingling with the tang of lemon. “Been called a lot of things in   
my time,” he chuckled. “Wimpy ain’t one of ‘em. Don’t know as I see myself  
as side kick to no guy wearin’ a sailor suit and eatin’ leafy green stuff.”   
He gestured at a small potted plant standing beside the crockery and wrinkled   
his nose. “_That_,” he shuddered “gives me the creeps.”

 

Buffy followed the line of his outstretched arm. One of the slayers  
had placed the plant there to ’brighten the place up’ before the evacuation  
of the injured had begun. It seemed innocuous enough; a few delicate lilac  
flowers, purple-streaked at the centre of each of the five petals, perched  
precariously atop a multitude of tooth-edged leaves. Buffy pulled the triangular  
label from the compost and peered at it. “_Pelargonium citrosum. Water  
regularly. Do not overwater_,” she read aloud. “_Leaves may be used  
to add flavour in baking, beverages and salads_.” Buffy shot Whistler  
a questioning look.

 

“Salads,” he replied by way of explanation. “One of the Dark Side’s  
inventions.” He helped himself to the largest slice of cake and settled  
into the armchair beside her.

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

In the gloom of Civic Hall, Drusilla waved away the minion offering  
her a tray bearing a crystal decanter of blood. “Take it away,” she said  
stonily. “Got no use for blood when there’s seeing to be done.”

 

She turned away from the window, leaving the view of the darkened  
city streets and moved back to the table upon which the Celtic cross of  
tarot cards, five of them still face down, lay. “What will the future  
hold for my boy now that his love’s been taken from him?” She selected  
three cards and held the first to the lamplight. “Three of Swords. Sorrow.  
Poor Spike, I can feel his loss, it aches and burns inside like hunger.”

 

 

\-------------------------------------------

 

In the square below her, Angel, Illyria, Spike and Lorne emerged from  
one of the many underground passages Buffy had marked on the map. Spike  
paused and narrowed his eyes as he searched the mid-floor windows of City  
Hall.

 

“Spike?” Angel stopped walking and turned to face the younger vampire.

 

 

Spike shook his head. “Nothing. Thought I felt . . .” He shook his   
head again. “’s nothing.” He stared at the fountain in the centre of the   
square. “Why’s this called Dandelion?” he asked peevishly, gesturing at   
the centrepiece.”

 

Lorne stepped beside him. “The patterns it makes when it plays,” he  
explained. “Like a giant seedhead.”

 

“Yeah? Well, looks like someone knocked the head off now,” Spike retorted,   
his eyes drawn back to a window as a shadowy figure moved deeper into a  
room and an unseen hand drew the blinds. “Dru had one of those fly-catchin’   
plants once. Kept it as a pet. Lived longer than anything else ever did.”   
He dropped his gaze from the fourth floor offices. “Why dandelion?” he asked,  
returning to the topic of the fountain. “Why not something – I dunno, less  
weedlike?”

 

Lorne noted the increased agitation in his voice. “Someone wiser than  
me once said that ‘weed’ is just a word for ‘plant in the wrong place’.”

 

 

“Words!” spat Illyria. “They spew from your mouths like vomit, pouring   
from your very entrails filth that conceals true meaning.”

 

Spike turned his head and frowned at her. “Thought you’d all done  
with the muck metaphors, Blue. What brought that attack on?

 

Illyria surveyed the buildings surrounding the square, lifted her  
head and sniffed the air. “My nostrils are filled with the scent of reeking   
dung hills and puddles of piss.”

 

Spike surveyed the surrounding buildings. “Got that right,” he snorted.  
That’d be the seat of government over there, where they’re full of it.”

 

 

Angel shot him an irritated glance and scanned the deserted street   
anxiously. “Let’s get movin’. Less time we spend out in the open, the better.”

 

 

“Not much further,” Lorne added, folding the map and putting it in   
his pocket. That way.” He pointed eastwards across the square.

 

“Time is not our ally,” agreed Illyria, moving swiftly ahead of the  
others in the direction Lorne indicated.

 

\-----------------------------------

 

Buffy reached out and touched one of the geranium leaves, crushing   
it between thumb and forefinger, releasing a barely perceptible odour of  
fresh citrus.

 

“What did she mean?” Buffy asked, bringing her fingertips to her face  
and breathing in the scent.

 

Whistler looked up from his plate and tilted his head at her. “Pardon  
me?”

 

“Illyria. She said Connor binds Angel to this world.”

 

“See,” Whistler took another bite of lemon drizzle, “so long as the  
kid is safe, Angel’s willing to go out fightin’.” He considered the statement  
for a second “If he knows the kid’s in danger, he’s gonna stay put.”

 

“What’s he like - Connor?”

 

Whistler swallowed the remaining mouthful. “Better ask the man himself.  
Ain’t my place to say.”

 

“Where _is_ your place?” Buffy held the cream jug out to him.

 

 

Whistler shook his head. “The big shake-up happenin’, forces gatherin’,  
Dark Alliances bein’ made like you never seen before.” He reached out  
for another slice of cake. “Decided to even the odds for the Light a little.“  
He paused and watched as Buffy poured herself more coffee, added cream  
and stirred it slowly as she waited for him to continue. “Your guy knows  
all about choosing sides.”

 

“Angel?”

 

“Your _other_ guy. The one who don’t know _why_ he made  
the choice in the first place now.”

 

“Is he still my guy?” Buffy asked ruefully, watching the cream swirling  
in spirals on the top of the dark aromatic liquid.

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

Drusilla turned the next card. She gasped at the image; fire crowned   
a tower crumbling from the force of a lightning strike. Two figures hurtled   
to the rocks below, falling from the disintegrating keep. “My poor boy’s   
world is turned all upside down.” She began to croon softly to herself,   
her hand worrying her brow. “Poor little lamb who’s lost his way. Baah,   
bahh.” She raised her head, looked towards the window, and lifted her eyes   
to the sky she knew was there behind the drawn blinds. “Princess will help   
you, my darling. Help you find your way back to what you really are.”

 

\----------------------------------------------

 

“He’s still who he is,” Whistler told Buffy, “but with a chunk missing   
from his memory, all bets are off about who he chooses next time. This   
is a whole new ballgame and I ain’t seen no rules posted.”

 

“How about you, Whistler, whose rules are you playing by?”

 

“I don’t play by no rules. Strictly freelance. Always have been –  
‘til now.”

 

Buffy stared into the remaining dregs at the bottom of her coffee  
mug, now cooled to murky mud coloured sludge. “Then why hide what you  
know – about the one we need to find?”

 

“Gimme a break. I ain’t used to this, _I’m_ usually the one doin’   
what _you’re_ doin’.

 

Buffy raised her eyebrows at him over the rim of her mug.

 

Whistler wiped the crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand   
and gave her a small sheepish smile. “To keep me safe, I guess.”

 

Buffy rose to her feet and crossed the room to the window and gazed  
out into the darkness. She stood for a moment before turning and looking  
steadily into his eyes, folding her arms as she did so.

 

“C’mon,” said Whistler anxiously. “How long you gonna keep me around   
once I hand over the goods? Guy like me – short, no negotiable skills?   
What else I got? There ain’t no place for me.”

 

“We could _find_ you a place,” said Buffy, returning to the table   
and plucking the remaining cake from Whistler’s plate. “Mmmmm,” she murmured,   
biting into the icing, “lemony.”

 

\-------------------------------------------

 

Upstairs in Fred’s room, the aroma of peppermint with sharp, more  
acidic undertones, pervaded the air. Willow, seated beside the window,  
her laptop open in front of her, closed her eyes in concentration. She’d  
placed candles beside Wesley, coloured lights, crème de menthe  
darkening to deeper blue, yellow gold paling to lemon, resonating the  
soothing perfume emanating from their depths.

 

“Are they working?” asked Willow.

 

“What?” Wesley looked up from his books; tiredness etched across his   
eyes which were deep in shadow.

 

“The candles”, Willow indicated with a flick of her head, her eyes   
firmly closed.

 

Wesley ran a hand through his dishevelled hair. “I do seem to be feeling   
a little less . . .”

 

“Angry?” Willow supplied the word.

 

“Conflicted, I was going to say. But as to deciphering the book.”  
He sighed heavily. “I seem to have lost . . .”

 

The computer gave a single beep. Willow scrutinised the monitor and  
smiled. “I kinda missed this,” she said, glancing over her shoulder,  
“hitting the research with a Watcher.”

 

“Have you found something?” Wesley asked, rising to his feet.

 

“Only the Wolfram and Hart LAN,” beamed Willow, unable to keep the   
pride from her voice.

 

“How on earth . . .” Wesley strode across the room and peered over   
her shoulder.

 

The monitor screen was empty, save for the intertwined letters WRH   
forming part of a logo, a crest bearing a Yale rampant on a black background.

 

 

“Easy as nailing jelly to a tree,” grinned Willow.

 

Wesley raised his eyebrows quizzically and examined the screen. “I’m   
not familiar with that page. Can you go in deeper?”

 

Willow’s fingers flew across the keyboard. “Shouldn’t take too . .   
.”

 

“Wait!” cried Wesley. “Go back. Let me see that image again.” He returned   
to the table, picked up the Watcher’s Diary and carried it back to Willow.  
He studied the logo carefully, then flicked through the pages of the  
book. “There,” he said, showing Willow a page upon which was a drawing  
of the same mythical creature as the crest on the webpage. “Ram’s horns  
beneath a pair of antlers, body of a stag, the head and feet of a wolf.  
“It’s like no Yale I’ve ever seen before.”

 

Willow studied the page, scanning the ancient text for signs of Wesley’s   
translation. Faint pencil marks in the margin indicated he had at least   
made a start on this section of the manuscript.

 

“Where’s your notes?” she asked, anxiously.

 

Wesley rifled through the loose sheets stuffed into the back of the  
book. “Yes,” he smiled triumphantly. “Let me see . . ._ many armed powers_   
. . . _alliance_ . . . ah, here it is. ‘_Oh accursed letters, combine   
in one all ages past, and make one live with all. Make us confer with those  
who are now gone. And the living dead unto counsel call_.”

 

“A Super Power? Like Super Buffy.”

 

Wesley gave her a quizzical look.

 

“The – uh - ad_joining_ spell,” she stuttered excitedly, “when  
me, Xander, Giles and Buffy made a combo-Buffy to fight Adam.

 

“Seems like,” agreed Wesley. “But that’s not all. There’s worse.”

 

 

“Worse than combo-evil?” Willow paled and smiled bravely. “What could  
be worse?”

 

“I’m not exactly sure about some of the references in the next paragraph,”  
Wesley confessed. “I’d like to work on it a little longer. In the meantime,   
try going deeper into the new website and see if you can find any personnel   
lists.”

 

\-----------------------------------------

 

Angel stared up at the gleaming blue glass tower. He’d stopped so  
suddenly that Spike careered into the back of him.

 

“Watch it!” Spike snapped “Hand signals next time, Gramps.” When Angel   
didn’t respond, Spike followed his gaze upwards. “Well,” he said, eyes   
opening wide. “Looks pretty upstandin’ for something you said was fallin’   
down round your ears.”

 

Angel frowned and searched the front of the building. The entrance   
doors sported new glass, etched with what looked like a family crest. He  
moved closer and examined the shield, tracing the lines forming the Yale  
rampant; ram’s horns, antlers, wolf head, and claws, with his fingers.

 

 

“New tenants done a spot of renovating already?” asked Spike peering   
into the darkened atrium.

 

“New improved old ones.” Angel replied, pointing at the crest.

 

“Looks like they used up all their energy on the bodywork,” said Spike.  
“Inside’s like a war zone.”

 

“Any sign of life?” asked Lorne nervously.

 

Spike rattled the doors and cocked his head, straining for sounds  
of alarm from within. “Nope. No way in, either. Back door?”

 

Angel nodded.

 

Minutes later, they emerged from the empty underground car park into   
the ruined interior of the reception area. They picked their way gingerly   
across the rubble, probing forward by torchlight. Fallen masonry cast long  
shadows ahead of them, magnified in the arc of their beams.

 

Lorne looked around nervously and flinched at a sudden noise from  
beneath the pile of splintered wood and plastic that had been Harmony’s  
desk. He relaxed slightly as a rat skittered out from beneath the debris.  
“I thought they were the first to leave,” he joked.

 

“That’s ships, not evil corporate headquarters,” replied Spike, squinting   
into the gloom. “Besides, this one isn’t sinking. Not if the quickfit job  
outside is anything to go by.”

 

Angel paused and sniffed the air beside another heap of fallen plaster   
and wall cladding. “D’you get that?” he asked.

 

The slightly sweet smell of decay that permeated the room was stronger   
now. Illyria stooped and picked a broken flowerpot from the pile, a broken   
geranium head clinging stubbornly to the jagged edge of earthenware. Bright   
splashes fell slowly to the floor, drops of blood-red petals drifting across  
the grey grime. “Men’s lives are as brief as the flowers,” she mused,  
“destined all too soon to putrefy into the stink of flesh.”

 

Lorne clamped a hand over his nose and fumbled in his pocket for a   
handkerchief, overcome by the stench of faeces and urine; and something   
worse. “I think I’m gonna be sick,” he moaned.

 

“You ’d think they’d clear the rubbish in here before waxing the bodywork,”  
observed Spike. He heaved a chunk of the Wolfram and Hart sign clear  
of a pile of twisted metal, revealing Hamilton’s body beneath.

 

The foetid smell of rotting meat stung Lorne’s eyes and he moved swiftly   
away, fighting the bile that rose in his throat.

 

“Go see if my spare coat’s still in the training room,” Spike called   
to him. “Air’s prob’ly fresher in there.”

 

“I shall accompany you, Green Demon,” declared Illyria, striding after   
Lorne “There is something I also wish to find - for my Wesley”

 

Spike crouched down beside Hamilton’s body and turned the head to  
one side to examine the neck. “Took a good chunk out of him, Peaches.  
‘S that how we got ‘supercharged Angel the dragon killer’?”

 

Hamilton’s eyes flew open. “Only temporarily,” he sneered. “Whereas  
with the Senior Partners, it’ll be a permanent arrangement courtesy of  
Management.”

 

“You say something?” Angel called from his old office doorway.

 

Spike recoiled at Hamilton’s words. He staggered backwards as Hamilton’s   
body rose from the floor and stalked away into the dark.

 

“Spike?” Angel hit the security lighting switch and hurried back to  
where he could see Hamilton’s body lying motionless and silent.

 

Spike looked around wildly. “He spoke to me. He’s not . . .” His eyes  
focused on the corpse beside him.

 

Angel swallowed the knot of concern forming in his gullet. “Shadows.   
Your mind playing tricks.” He held out a hand and hauled Spike to his feet.  
“Stay close.”

 

He led Spike back to the CEO’s office and cleared a space on the sofa,   
brushing rubbish and dust aside with a sweep of his hand.

 

“It never ends, does it?” Spike said morosely as he stared at the  
dirt. “Is dust immortal, then?”

 

As he spoke, the few remaining airborne particles began spiralling   
upwards, swirling and glinting in the glow of the subdued lighting, taking   
shape, solidifying into a slender female form.

 

Drusilla’s voice floated from the dusty mirage, twirling a bright  
yellow dandelion flower between her fingers. “_Golden lads and lasses  
must, as chimney sweepers, turn to dust_,” she sang.

 

Spike leapt to his feet and grabbed at her. “You’re not her!” he snarled,   
as his hands passed through her laughing image.

 

“No! I’m really not.” Drusilla giggled. “You _know_ who I am,   
William,” she growled, morphing into vamp face. “Don’t you remember?”

 

 

“No, I don’t!” Spike yelled. “I don’t remember.”

 

Angel gripped his arm. “Spike. Concentrate on my voice. There’s no   
one here.”

 

Spike yanked himself free from Angel’s grasp and sprinted from the   
room into another office. He stumbled over an obstacle lying just inside   
the doorway. Angel, following close behind, steadied himself against the   
door at the sight of Eve’s corpse.

 

“I thought she’d left,” he murmured crouching beside her.

 

“She’s real? She’s not another . . .?” Spike asked shakily.

 

Angel examined Eve’s head and neck. Her engorged face, the eyes bulging,   
was tinged blue, the eyelids sprinkled with showers of tiny red pinpricks.  
Angel raised one of the lids; the lining was similarly marked. “Real,”  
he confirmed. He gently lifted Eve’s chin and studied her neck. “And strangled.”

 

 

Spike stepped closer and tilted his head, narrowing his eyes as he   
tried to recall Eve’s features without the discoloration of the beginning   
of putrefaction. He shrugged, sniffing loudly in an attempt at bravado he  
no longer felt. “Beady little rat-eyed snake caught in her own trap. No  
loss. However she snuffed it, we’re well rid of her. ”

 

“Wrong again, Champ.” Eve’s voice grated inside his head. Her battered   
corpse rose in front of him. Spike shrank away from the hand that reached   
for his face. “I’ve still got my eyes on you. You’ll never be rid of me.   
I will never leave you.”

 

Eve’s form faded, dissolving into a transparent phantasm that regenerated  
into that of another. Spike closed his eyes, shutting out the image of  
the woman he’d once loved for so long.

 

He could not block out her voice, despite clamping his hands over  
his ears, nor the chilling message it carried. “I will never, ever leave  
you, my darling, deadly boy.”

 

Angel pulled Spike’s hands from his head and dragged him out of the  
door. “We’re leaving. Now!” he barked.

 

\------------------------------------------------

 

A gaudily coloured angel, cheeks bulging with the effort of sounding   
the last trump, called the souls of the world to judgement on a scrap of   
card on a table in the dark.

 

“Choose my side, my William,” Drusilla chanted into the black of the   
night. “This time, choose me."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   
  
---|---


	9. 8The Soul of the World is Abroad Tonight

  
  
  
  
[](index.html)

 

[Home](index.html)

 

* * *

  
[  
Fanfic Home](Fanfic.html)

 

* * *

  
[Soul Searching Home](Soul%20Searching%20Home.html)

 

 

 

|    
Soul Searching

 

________________________________________________________

 

 

**Chapter 8. **The Soul of  
the World is Abroad Tonight

 

Angel hurried through the ruined reception area, pushing Spike  
in front of him, barely keeping them ahead of the vibrations that accompanied  
the creaking and groaning emanating from deep inside the the building.  
As they raced along, the debris at their feet dissolved into puddles of  
ooze and slime, which, in turn, evaporated on the waves of fiery darkness   
that swept behind in the vampires' wake.

 

"Stop shovin'," Spike snarled as they reached the elevators.

 

The buckled doors of the nearest compartment shuddered as a ripple  
of energy shook the steel back into place and the doors swished apart.

 

Spike jerked his head in the direction of Angel's old office. "What   
was all that about?"

 

"A warning," replied Angel.

 

Spike indicated the lift. "And this?"

 

"Power display."

 

Somewhere in the depths of the infrastructure, the girders shrieked   
their complaint as the wreckage was replaced. A new company sign, bearing   
the same crest Angel had pointed out at the entrance, materialised over a  
refurbished reception desk. The walls bulged and heaved, rippling and rolling  
as an unseen force twisted its way through the building.

 

Spike stepped through the doors and held them back to allow Angel to  
enter. "Warning? Of what?" he asked.

 

"You should ask from whom, not of what, William. But then you always  
were a little slow on the uptake." Darla's honeyed voice slithered out  
of the dark corner of the newly restored elevator.

 

Spike caught Angel's slight intake of breath as he felt his way along   
the side walls, tracking a spattering of minute droplets, to where Darla   
stood watching them, a small mocking smile twitching at the corner of her   
mouth.

 

Angel fingered a small, red sticky patch with his fingertips. "Blood,"  
he said. "Fresh." He rubbed his index finger and thumb together and lifted   
them to his lips. "Connor's."

 

The dim emergency lighting faded for a second and was replaced by the   
full dazzle of the spots recessed in the ceiling.

 

Darla smiled and stepped towards Angel. "Well done, my love."

 

"Where is he?" Angel demanded.

 

Spike raised his eyebrows. "You can see her?"

 

Angel ignored him and moved closer to his former lover.

 

Darla smiled once more and disappeared through the closing doors. "My   
darling boy. I told you I had nothing to offer him." Her voice hung in   
the air. ". "I trusted _you_ to take care of him. But you're too busy   
protecting everyone else."

 

Angel leapt for the doors but the lift was already in motion, moving  
upwards towards the Training Room. He smashed his fists into the metal  
and slumped back against the wall.

 

Spike ran a hand over his hair and sighed. "I don't know what the buggery  
is going on." He paused as another tremor shook the building, and the  
lift slowed. He waited; expecting Angel to prise the doors apart before  
the automatic device had time to activate. Spike tried the glass half-full  
approach. "But he's probably OK," "I mean, you'd've known if his body was  
down there."

 

Angel stared glumly at him. "Maybe," he said finally. "Let's find the   
others and get out of here."

 

"That's your answer to most of your problems." Darla fell into step   
beside them as they raced along the corridor. "Leave them behind." She turned  
towards Spike. "Whereas this one . . ." She left the sentence for Angel  
to fill in the "he never knows when to quit," for himself.

 

An undulation in the floor ahead of them forced Angel to slow the pace  
and he allowed himself a glance at Darla. She rewarded him with a simpering   
look from beneath her lashes accompanied by a stream of whispered accusations.  
"You could have tried harder," she complained. "Our child - he's the one  
good thing we ever did together. The only good thing." She laughed. "And  
he'll destroy you."

 

Spike growled. "Knock it off, Grandma,"

 

Darla sighed and smiled condescendingly at him. "You were nothing but   
trouble since the day Drusilla brought you home; with your grand ideas   
and poetic notions. And what became of them?" she asked softly, morphing   
into Spike's sire. "You're as lost as Daddy is now."

 

…………………………..

 

Drusilla gazed up at the night sky. The glow from the city lights all   
but obliterated the narrow sliver of the moon, a silver crescent of the   
waxing goddess of love. The penultimate tarot card lay on the table beside   
the others; a wheel suspended on the back of a demon, riding in the heavens;  
at each compass point the four elements: earth, water, fire, air.

 

"The battle isn't over!" she exclaimed.

 

"Tell me something I don't already know," Sirk sneered. "How do we  
persuade him to come to us?"

 

"Hmmm." Drusilla whimpered as she made her way back to the table. She   
drew a card from the deck to clarifiy and frowned. "The Sun. I see another   
standing in our way. _Chosen_."

 

"The Slayer?" Sirk asked.

 

Drusilla shook her head and closed her eyes. "The sun kills our kind.   
But this one doesn't judge. Angel uses it. It holds the power of life, of  
the earth." She rose to her feet and swept towards the door. "I must go  
to Spike. This one blocks my boy's way and confuses him."

 

"I was rather hoping you'd be here when we took delivery of the package,"  
Sirk remarked.

 

"Don't open it without me. We'll have a party when I get back; a party,   
with cake and dollies." Drusilla stepped into the corridor and clapped   
her hands together, summoning a group of vampires from the adjoining office.

 

 

"Ta ta," Drusilla called, as she glided towards the elevator. "Such   
a pity you don't want to come. We're going to have such a lovely game. '_Boys  
and girls come out to play, the moon does shine as bright as day_',"  
she sang as she waited for the elevator to arrive.

 

…………………………….

 

The door to the Training Room swung open and Lorne peered out, looking  
nervously up and down the corridor. He clung to the door post as another  
convulsion shook the building. The walls realigned themselves as he watched,  
acquiring a new cladding of composite material to replace the damaged  
décor.

 

"That was some weird trip up here," he called to Angel. "Did the whole  
building just regenerate? Or was it just the elevators?"

 

Angel shrugged. "Find anything?"

 

"This," replied Lorne, holding out a leather duster for Angel's inspection.   
"And it's not the only one." He stared at the walls, shuddering as they   
completed another bout of twisting and bulging. "I don't know much about   
the cloning of office blocks, but this coat's sure been busy breeding. There's   
a whole pile of them writhing about in there."

 

Lorne held the duster out towards Spike. "Uh, mission control to Blondie   
Bear," he called in response to the vampire’s blank stare.

 

"So lost," whispered Drusilla's apparition. "And cursed. Like Angel."

 

Spike growled softly at her. "Nothing like Angel. Fought for mine."

 

"The Angels whisper to me, my William," replied Drusilla. "Angels with  
tongues of dark flames . They tell me to bring you home."

 

"Spike!" Angel gripped Spike's elbow. "Don't listen. It's not Dru."

 

Spike wrenched himself free and swung the duster over his shoulders   
plunging his arms into the sleeves in one savage movement. "Think I don't   
_know_ that!" As his fingers emerged from within the coat, Drusilla   
faded and disappeared. "Well." Spike blinked. "If I knew _that_ was   
all it was gonna take . . ."

 

Angel interrupted him and addressed Lorne. "Where's Illyria?"

 

"She headed for Wes' office," Lorne replied, "right after she picked  
something up from the observation room floor." He held out a hand towards  
Spike. "She said it's yours."

 

Spike frowned at the wristwatch Lorne offered him. "Don't recall ever   
having one of those," he said peering at the face. "It's cracked." He slipped   
it over his right hand, fastening the leather buckle tightly. Spike shook   
his arm, in an attempt to revive the mechanism. "Reckon the battery's dead."

 

The building shook once again, rocked by a surge of power that tore   
its way through the electrical system, killing the lights.

 

"Everyone OK?" Lorne asked anxiously.

 

A grunt from Angel, followed by Spike's incredulous gasp, reassured   
him they were.

 

"Look." Spike's voice rang with a note of wonder.

 

In the corridor ahead of them, a shape was forming, a silver light  
covering the unmistakable frame of a woman. Her body, clothed in phosphorescent  
light, danced to some unheard music, leading the way, guiding them towards  
the staircase.

 

Lorne was the first to speak, his eyes misting with tears, his voice  
choked with emotion. "Fred."

 

Fred's lithe form moved gracefully towards Wesley's office, twirling  
and pirouetting in time to the music only Lorne could hear. He hummed the  
tune for Angel.

 

Angel gave a small smile. "_Copellia_. Dance of the Hours."

 

…………………………………………………………

 

Willow yawned and slumped in her seat.

 

“Damn!” cried Wesley.

 

“Did I yawn at a bad time?” asked Willow. “Because I don’t think my   
body’s taking orders from my brain any more.” She gestured at the monitor.   
“Timed-out.”

 

“No, no, it wasn’t you,” Wesley reassured her. “I think I’ve found  
the reason this passage didn’t make sense when I first translated it.

 

Willow scooted her chair closer to the table.

 

“See. Here. _‘ekarAj'_ a Sanscrit term. It means ‘alone visible’,  
or ‘shining alone’. But, it can also refer to the ‘only king or ruler’.  
’_And in the age when the dragon is slain, time shall be no more_.’  
I think that’s fairly self-explanatory,” Wesley explained.

 

Willow nodded her understanding.

 

Wesley continued. “_Thus begins the final battle. The fight will  
be terrible for the soul of the Whole World is at stake_.’ I’m reading   
that as worlds beyond the confines of this one.”

 

“Another Apocalypse? Pffft – easy peasy. We can do those with our eyes  
closed.”

 

“This one will be worse,” said Wesley grimly, staring at the text.  
“_And all the beasts shall be as one and shall rise anew when the darkness   
sweeps over the realms of the earth_."

 

"But that's just repeating the super-combo-evil thing," said Willow.

 

"Not quite. There's more," Wesley said patiently. "_The Forces of   
Darkness will use any weapon; the ekarAj_ \- or dark Prince - _will   
form an alliance with them to retrieve that which was stolen_.”

 

“How is that worse?” Willow asked.

 

“_Illyria_.” Wesley ground the name between clenched teeth. “God   
King of the Primoridium, whose power I stole to save her life.”

 

………………..

 

The final card of the tarot reading lay face uppermost. Sirk peered   
at it. "The lovers," he read. "Love." he said wryly, "The root of all evil."

 

……………………………..

 

“See, that didn’t hurt at all.” Buffy gave Whistler one of her most   
beaming smiles and poured him some freshly made coffee.

 

Whistler cringed. “I ain’t felt this bad since I had my wisdom’s pulled.”

 

“So, let me get this straight. The Gatekeeper – he isn’t really dead?”

 

“He’s dead all right. Angel snapped his neck. But he’s The Keeper.  
The Battlebrand. Immortal. Still got a job to do.”

 

“And Spike’s the key to finding him.”

 

“That and other things.”

 

“Wesley’s resurrection?”

 

“That for one.”

 

“And the other?”

 

“Illyria. More specifically, her body’s previous tenant. The Warrior  
who holds together the worlds of science and magic.”

 

“But why . . .?” Buffy paused and considered her choice of words. "If   
Drogyn's immortal." She flushed slightly, then continued. "Why _Spike_   
for the student exchange programme, if this guy's still available for work?"

 

“Why’d the Powers choose Spike?" asked Whistler reaching for his coffee.  
"One word. _Passion_. His love’s total. It’s what drives him.”

 

“I remember the passion,” Buffy said softly. “I missed it after the   
soul.”

 

“Lose the memory of his love for you, there’s a void screaming to be  
filled.” Whistler picked up a knife and began cleaning under his fingernails  
with the blade. “He loved Fred – not the same way as you, " he added hastily.  
"‘It’s what drove him to agree to the exchange."

 

"For Drogyn?"

 

Whistler shook his head. "For Wesley.” He looked Buffy in the eyes  
for the first time. “The Powers don’t care much ‘bout the love. They play  
by their own rules. Spike was the price. Only they know why, but The Forces  
of Darkness are gonna be mighty interested in . . . .”

 

"Illyria," said Willow breathlessly.

 

"Huh?" Buffy swung her head towards the staircase that Willow had descended  
at reckless speed. Wesley followed at a more measured pace, carrying the   
manuscript and translations.

 

"Buffy, you have to go and warn Angel. Illyria's in cahoots with the  
other side." Willow grasped the arm of Whistler's chair for support and  
bent forward to ease her laboured breathing. "Guess I'm a little out of  
condition."

 

"Stay here," Buffy ordered. "I need you to protect the hotel." She  
sprinted towards the door. "You'll slow me down," she yelled in anticipation  
of Willow's protest.

 

…………………………………….

 

Illyria stared into Fred's face as she sank down into the classic pose  
of the ballerina signalling the end of a dance. "The shell. She unravels  
the mystery of time with the dance. The steps guide the way to that which  
my Wesley bade me seek."

 

Illyria followed the direction indicated by the outstretched leg and  
arms to Wesley's open office door. She stepped inside just as the others  
reached Fred's disappearing image, and made her way towards a box stowed  
underneath a pile of books in the corner of the darkened office.

 

Spike was the first to arrive at her side as she plunged her hands  
into the cardboard container. "Time?" he asked, squinting down at her as  
she brought out various objects scrutinising and discarding each one in  
turn. "Got anything to do with this?" he held his right wrist towards her.

 

Illyria gripped the two items she'd selected from the pile and gazed  
at his watch. "Probably," she said. "But only my Guide to this contradictory   
world may tell us of the significance of a stuffed fertility symbol and   
a box fashioned of plastic and glass."

 

Spike peered at the two items she held out for his inspection; a soft   
toy rabbit and video camera. He bit his lip in concentration then looked   
again at the box. "Fairly sure Wes stashed some of Fred's things away, but  
don't recall her ever having a camera . . ."

 

The office gave another heave. With it came new sounds; voices calling  
greetings to one another; the familiar swish of elevator doors opening;  
the staff returning to the office block.

 

"Time we were leaving," Angel called from the doorway.

 

 

 

 

 

   
  
---|---


	10. 9Love Bade Me Welcome; Yet My Soul Drew Back

  
  
  
  
[](index.html)

 

[Home](index.html)

 

* * *

  
[  
Fanfic Home](Fanfic.html)

 

* * *

  
[Soul Searching Home](Soul%20Searching%20Home.html)

 

 

 

|    
Soul  
Searching

 

________________________________________________________

 

 

**Chapter 9: **Love  
Bade Me Welcome; Yet My Soul Drew Back.

 

The security lights in Wesley's office dimmed, flickering on and off  
for a second before going out. Menacing sounds of gurgling and clanking  
coming from the heating system grew quieter and the whole building held  
its breath as if waiting for something. Spike hugged his duster close  
and narrowed his eyes at the sounds of the elevator doors opening and closing  
as the power alternated between failure and the back up system. His face  
was lit by a dull red glow from the PC monitor on the desk beside him. The  
scarlet background of the Wolfram and Hart Yale screen saver cast an eerie,  
bloody haze onto his skin, flushing it with an appearance of warmth; a  
direct contradiction to the ominous chill that had descended on the room.

 

Angel stepped back into the doorway. "Illyria, we need to move _now_!"

 

“You desire to leave and track your son, vampire.” Illyria challenged   
him, “but I will not leave yet.”

 

"Why the bloody hell not?" Spike asked, looking anxiously over his  
shoulder towards the corridor at the sound of approaching voices. He tensed,  
preparing himself for battle, then frowned as he recognised Wesley's voice  
coming from just inside the doorway.

 

" Yes, he is a bit jumpy. He's realised Nina is developing feelings   
for him," said Wesley, his transparent form emerging from within Angel's   
solid one. He moved towards his desk, a shaft of light emanating from somewhere   
high above his head cutting a bright swathe through the glowering luminescence  
of the secondary lighting.

 

Spike's eyes widened as he saw another shape pass through his Grandsire   
and follow Wesley across the room.

 

"Well, took him long enough." Fred grinned at Wesley.

 

Spike shook his head in disbelief, closing his eyes to shut out the   
image of the one woman who had been his friend without asking for anything   
in return. _There was a hole in the world_, he remembered. And   
he still didn't know why, but there was a hole inside _him _too, and   
he felt it where his heart hurt.

 

"He can be rather dense," Wesley agreed returning Fred's smile.

 

Fred lowered her eyes and smiled at him again, glancing shyly from  
under her lashes. "Um... by the way, my car is in the shop again, and  
I was thinking..."

 

"Of course." Wesley rose from his chair, freezing in place as he offered  
Fred his arm.

 

"What the . . .?" Spike spluttered.

 

"Time is shifting, unravelling, reforming; an occurrence that one such  
as I would have controlled rather than been at its mercy." Illyria examined   
Fred curiously. "That such a weak thing should hold mastery of its mystery   
is unthinkable, and yet my Qwa'ha Xahn chose her knowing her to possess   
a great power."

 

Lorne moved closer to the former God-King. "Angel's right about needing   
to move." He glanced nervously towards the door where the sounds of early   
morning cleaning staff could be heard clattering their way towards Wesley's   
office. He gestured at the objects in Illyria’s hand. "My not quite dead   
sixth sense tells me you're holding what Wes sent you here to find. So unless   
you're planning to hand it over to someone el. . . . "

 

His words were cut short as Illyria gripped him by the throat with  
her free arm and stopped the air to his windpipe. "You dare presume to  
question my loyalty?" She lifted him into the air. "Have I not said I  
will stay with my Wesley until he has solved the riddle of the walls?"  
Illyria cocked her head, listening to the faint sound of a phone ringing  
from the direction of Harmony's desk as the chaser system began its 'after  
hours' round robin calling. “The vampire needs something before he leaves.”

 

As if on cue, Harmony’s phone ceased and the one on Wesley's desk began   
to ring.

 

“Is no one goin’ to answer the bleedin’ phone?” Spike complained. He  
glared at Wesley who remained immobile, oblivious to everything and everyone  
around him. He peered into Wesley’s eyes. “No one’s home,” he said finally,  
reaching for the handset.

 

“This collision of times has served its purpose,” Illyria observed.

 

Spike rolled his eyes at her and held the receiver out toward Angel.  
“It’s for you. Some bloke called Reilly.”

 

Angel moved swiftly to take the phone from Spike’s outstretched hand,   
carefully avoiding Fred where she was standing motionless and silent, frozen   
in time, as she turned to leave the office. Angel's voice was cheery but   
his face remained solemn. “Mr Reilly. What can I do for you?”

 

All attention focused on him as he stiffened at the response. He turned   
toward the window, gazing out into the black night, letting Mr Reilly’s   
words sink in, confirming the fears he’d felt when he first smelled Connor’s   
blood in the elevator.

 

“No. I haven’t seen him, not recently.” Angel swung back towards Lorne.   
“Take this down,”

 

Lorne pulled a notepad and pencil from his jacket pocket and scribbled  
the number Angel called to him.

 

“I’ll contact you as soon as I find him.” Angel spoke reassuringly  
into the mouthpiece. “You did the right thing in calling me.” He placed  
the receiver back in its cradle and slumped onto the edge of the desk.

 

“Well?” Spike was the first to speak.

 

That was Connor's father."

 

"His _father_? Thought you were his fa . . ."

 

"His _adopted_ family were attacked the same night we fought in  
the alley," Angel said solemnly, ignoring Spike's interruption. "Connor  
escaped and drew the demons away from the house. He said he'd try to find  
me. They've not heard from him since and he's not answering the messages  
on his cell phone." Angel stared out at the city skyline. "He came back  
here, in the hopes that I'd survived somehow." He turned back to the others  
and for once, his face betrayed the agony he felt. "He didn't know where  
else to look."

 

Lorne glanced nervously at Illyria. "Uh, Llyri, don't take this personally,  
but I really think we should go."

 

"There is nothing further I need here," she replied haughtily.

 

At her words, Fred and Wesley faded away and the sounds of a vacuum   
cleaner hummed and whirred its way down the corridor as the cleaning staff   
clattered towards them. As they reached the CEO's reception area, distant   
voices called 'Good morning Mr Angel', but there was no one to be seen,   
the foyer was deserted.

 

"This too is another time," Illyria commented as they passed Harmony's  
desk. "It approaches rapidly, catching up with us. Soon it will be in  
line with ours."

 

Lorne hurried to keep pace with the former God King. "How do you do   
that?" he asked hesitantly. "Wes said you'd had all that time altering stuffing  
knocked out of you."

 

"That was then," Illyria replied enigmatically. "This is now."

 

Spike raised his eyebrows and gestured at three figures materialising   
in the middle of the empty space in front of them. "You sure about that,   
Blue? Looks like we're about to have another attack of instant replay."

 

 

Hamilton, Wolfram and Hart's snappily dressed liaison to the Senior   
Partners lay crumpled on the floor. He pulled himself to his feet and strode   
towards Connor, throwing him effortlessly into the elevator doors.

 

"Connor!" The third figure rushed towards the boy.

 

"Let me say this as clearly as I can." Hamilton blocked Angel's way   
to his son. "You cannot beat me. I am a part of them. The Wolf, Ram, and   
Hart. Their strength flows through my veins. My blood is filled with their   
ancient power," he sneered condescendingly."

 

Angel smirked at him. "Can you pick out the one word there you probably   
shouldn't have said?" He vamped out and threw himself at Hamilton, biting   
him savagely. He drank deeply, holding on tenaciously as Hamilton struggled   
hard to free himself from his grip.

 

"Hey!" yelled Spike. "I take it all back. You _do _get the poetry."

 

Finally, Hamilton pulled Angel's head away from his neck, and threw   
him across the room.

 

Angel rotated his body in mid air and landed neatly on his feet. "Wow,"   
he said appreciatively, wiping his lips, "you really _are_ full of   
it."

 

Hamilton swung at him again, missing as Angel ducked to avoid the blow.

 

 

"What was that you were saying about ancient power?" Angel asked.

 

Hamilton threw another punch but Angel caught his arm and hit him in  
the ribs. Hamilton swung with his free arm, striking Angel in the face  
and receiving a whack to his own in return.

 

"You don't really think you're gonna win this, do you? You don't stand  
a chance. We are legion. We are forever." Despite the battering he was  
receiving, Hamilton's arrogance showed little sign of diminishing.

 

Angel struck him hard in the face. "Then I guess forever . . ." He  
punctuated his words with another thump. " Just got a _hell_ of a  
lot shorter."

 

Lorne closed his eyes as Angel landed one more punch, shutting out  
the sight but unable to block the sound as Hamilton's neck broke under  
the onslaught.

 

Connor staggered over to his father. "Is he dead?"

 

"Yeah, he's dead."

 

The windows started to crack and the walls began falling apart as the   
building shook and rumbled again.

 

"Uh, that's not good, is it?" asked Connor.

 

"You said it Bubba," said Lorne, grasping the edge of Harmony's desk  
for support.

 

"Wolfram &amp; Hart. Looks like they're taking the gloves off," Angel   
told Connor.

 

Connor appeared eager to continue fighting alongside his father. "What  
do we do?"

 

"You go home." Angel responded firmly.

 

“Huh?”

 

“This is _my_ fight.”

 

“That's some serious macho…”

 

"Go home..._now_."

 

"They'll destroy you!" Connor yelled over the noise of a falling concrete  
beam.

 

"As long as you're OK, they _can't_… Go."

 

“Now isn’t _that_ interesting." Spike snorted and pointed an accusing  
finger at the real Angel. " It was _you_ put ideas in their head.”  
No sooner had the words left his mouth than Spike regretted them. One look  
at Angel's face told him he'd already worked out who it was gave Wolfram  
and Hart the perfect weapon to hurt him. Spike swallowed and stared at  
his boots. The sounds of falling masonry and shattering glass stopped and  
the vibrations in the floor stilled. He saw another pair of shoes materialise  
next to his.

 

"_Naughty Daddy_. Tried to keep him away from me. Baby brother   
needs his sister to take care of him," Drusilla whispered in his ear. "I'm   
coming for both my pretties. Soon, my sweet."

 

"Can't hear you," Spike moaned, clamping his hands over his ears. A   
hand gripped his shoulder and he looked up to see Lorne's worried face peering  
into his.

 

"Are you still with us, Champ?" Lorne asked gently. "The big fight's  
over. Our guy won. Two knock downs and a submission."

 

Spike looked blankly at him and nodded. They made their way over to   
where Illyria waited beside Angel who was punching the call button repeatedly   
on the new control panel on the elevators.

 

"I may have been mistaken about the violence being over." Lorne observed.

 

"There's scuff marks and another trail of Connor's blood," Angel retorted.   
"Looks like he was taken not long ago, while we were in Wes's office. If  
we get down there fast, we may have a chance, trail's still fresh." He  
jabbed at the button again. "Come on, come on," he muttered.

 

"You cannot be sure when it occurred," said Illyria. "This time is  
not yet ours."

 

"Gee, you ever considered going into motivational speaking?" Lorne  
snarled at her. "There's a director's chair for '_pushing people over  
the edge_' with your name on it."

 

Illyria looked at him uncomprehendingly. "You talk in riddles and confuse  
me. I wish to return to Wesley." She stepped through the opening doors  
and turned her face to the wall, staring at her own reflection in the polished  
surface.

 

They rode to the ground floor in silence; three comrades in arms, each  
enclosed within his own mind, separated by uncertainty, guilt and confusion;  
three comrades in arms and a former God King bereft of power and searching  
for the meaning and purpose of her continued existence.

 

Lorne watched Illyria warily, unsure of her motive for helping Wesley,  
trying to work out where he fitted in the puzzle. Angel studied the signs  
of a struggle in the compartment and replayed Darla's accusations of neglecting  
their son. Spike, still shaky from the encounter with both Eve and Drusilla's  
apparitions, battled with the desolation at having lost part of himself.

 

 

As they emerged from the elevator, four vampires hurried out through  
the entrance doors, dragging an unconscious Connor between them. Angel  
sprinted across the lobby and out into the street, reaching it just as  
Connor was thrown into the back of a parked limousine.

 

"Go back to the hotel," Angel called to Lorne and Illyria. He chased  
after the car, which squealed away down the road and disappeared in the  
early morning traffic.

 

Spike trailed behind the rest of the group. He was so caught up in  
trying to suppress the images of the spectres that had assaulted him earlier,  
that he almost fell over Illyria as he left the lobby. She stood on the  
entrance steps watching Angel racing down the street in pursuit of the  
car.

 

"Hey! Watch it Blue," Spike protested.

 

Illyria slowly turned her ice-cold stare on him. "I have no _need_   
to watch anything here," she intoned. "I have need to return to Wesley with  
the things he bade me find." She strode away in the opposite direction  
to that taken by Angel, leaving Spike alone on the stairs with Lorne.

 

 

"I'll go with Her Iciness." Lorne flashed a worried look in the direction  
Angel had gone. "Maybe . . ."

 

Spike sighed. "Yeah, yeah. I'll go - do - whatever it is souled-vampires  
do for fun these days." He could feel a presence somewhere in the landscaped  
grounds and he didn't want anyone around when he finally confronted who  
it was that he knew was there waiting for him. "You go do…," he waved Lorne  
away. "_whatever_. I'll be fine." He turned to face the dark as Lorne  
hurried after Illyria. "Fine if your definition of fine includes not knowing  
what the buggery's goin' on most of the time," he added under his breath.

 

"You always look fine to me," Drusilla purred from the within the gloom   
beyond the streetlights.

 

He'd known she was there even before he’d seen her silhouette hesitating  
in the shadows; sensed her even before he caught her scent. His eyes flashed  
golden as he inhaled the unmistakable corrosive odour of defiled innocence.  
This was no First-fuelled apparition; this was the real Drusilla, waiting  
for him, come to claim him again. And his demon rejoiced.

 

She was as magnificent as he'd remembered, wearing a floor length coat  
of deepest night. Beneath it was a flame-coloured dress; swathes of silk  
licking her body as the shades of red and orange shimmered in the glare  
of halogen. A bunch of Sweet Williams sat in the lacy bodice of the gown,  
and a choker necklace of jet gleamed at her throat. This was his black  
beauty, the face of his salvation, the one his soulless self had claimed  
as his_ forever_, his _destiny_.

 

"I dreamed about you; your glory, your destiny, my Sweet William."

 

"Don't believe in destiny. Make my own," growled Spike, pushing his   
demon down.

 

Drusilla walked slowly around him and began to sing.

 

"_What did I dream?_

 

I do not know;

 

The fragments fly like chaff.

 

Yet strange my mind

 

Was tickled so,

 

I cannot help but laugh."

 

"_You're_ off your trolley," Spike sneered, backing away from  
her. "Mad as a bleedin' hatter."

 

"Don't be cruel, pretty Spike," pouted Drusilla. She giggled and moved  
closer. "You used to like my little songs." She placed her hand above  
his heart. "Said they told you things." She stared down the empty street.  
“_Angel_. He never liked them. Said they made him sad.” She closed  
her eyes and hummed to herself. “He was in my dream as well. Hmmm. He was  
flying ever so high. Flying towards the sun.

 

_There was an old crow_

 

Sat upon a clod;

 

That's the end of my song,

 

That's odd,”  she crooned.

 

“What’re you doing here, Dru?” Spike asked gently, his face softening.

 

"_There_ you are my Sweet William," Drusilla cooed, opening her  
eyes and pulling the bunch of pinks from her bodice. She held them out  
to him, smiling. "_The life that I have is all that I have. And the life  
that I have is yours._”

 

Spike shivered and pulled her into his arms, holding her close against  
his chest; finishing the rhyme as he did so. "_The love that I have  
of the life that I have, is yours and yours and yours_." He drew his  
head back and gazed solemnly at her. "Why're you here Dru?" he asked again.  
"Why _now_?"

 

"I wanted to see my family again," she murmured softly as she caressed  
his cheek. "You all left me."

 

He closed his eyes and rolled his neck, shuddering at the familiar  
tingle of pleasure at her touch. But something inside grated at the insinuation  
beneath her words. He flared his nostrils and pushed himself out of the  
embrace. "_You_ left _me_!" he stormed, his anger rushing to  
fill the empty void at the centre of his pain and confusion. "For a chaos  
demon!"

 

"But I came back. A girl can only stand so much being alone, Spike.   
I missed you." She nuzzled his neck, inhaling his scent, drawing a nail   
along his cheekbone, and opening a thin red gash. She smiled at the sight   
of the blood seeping from the wound and falling in tiny droplets to the   
steps. Her eyes flared yellow for a second as she trailed her tongue along   
the wound, but the instant she tasted his blood she recoiled away from him,   
clutching her throat, her eyes wide with horror. "It tastes of the dawn!"   
she gasped, her eyes wide with horror.

 

_Dawn_! Spike clenched his jaw against the remorse flooding   
into the the desolate place beneath his heart, and bit back the tears welling  
behind his eyes. He felt his soul scream in protest at Drusilla's contact,  
searing and scorching him as his veins ignited in a fiery reproach at  
her attempt to reclaim her wayward child.

 

'_The dawn comes sneaking up when it thinks I'm not looking_ *****,"  
Drusilla moaned. "Why did you let them do it, my love? I don't understand,"  
her sorrowful voice broke through his torment.

 

"Do it?" Spike forced down the pain and struggled to regain his balance.

 

"Curse you, like they cursed Angelus," she spat. Her distress was rapidly  
replaced by disgust.

 

"Nothing like Angel." Spike glanced upward at the lightening sky and  
frowned. Dawn _was_

 

"Then why? Why would you want such a nasty thing?"

 

"Fought for it. Won it fair and square." Spike muttered. He was no  
longer listening to her but searching within himself for the memories  
he'd given away.

 

Drusilla gave a small whimper. "Sweet William died for me today, I'll   
die for him tomorrow. Rosemary scents the tomb I've made. Rosemary for remembrance."  
She crushed the blooms in her hand and let them fall to the ground. "These  
flowers are all _wrong_."

 

"_Right _thing to do." Spike wiped his hand across his eyes and  
shook his head, trying to clear the fog of forgetfulness. "Did it for  
. . ."

 

"For _her_. I see it. You did it for her," Drusilla said angrily,   
realisation flooding in as she watched him. "Your face is a poem. I can   
read it. " She glided closer, closing her eyes and sweeping her hands round   
his head in circular motions. “But there now, they've all gone, the burning   
baby fishes, almost as if they never had been. You’re free of her.” She clasped  
her hands behind his neck and stroked his cheek. "You belong to me."

 

A hand grabbed her shoulder, swung her around and threw her away from   
Spike.

 

"He _belongs_ to no-one." Buffy snarled.

 

 

 

 

 

  
approaching. He looked  
down the street for signs of the others. "Not a curse."

 

   
  
---|---


	11. 10No Coward Soul is Mine

  
  
  
  
[](index.html)

 

[Home](index.html)

 

* * *

  
[  
Fanfic Home](Fanfic.html)

 

* * *

  
[Soul Searching Home](Soul%20Searching%20Home.html)

 

 

 

|    
Soul  
Searching

 

________________________________________________________

 

 

**Chapter 10:** No Coward Soul is Mine

 

The Los Angeles skyline heralded the dawn in its own inimitable  
way. Its signature display of garish pink and gaudy lilac clouds soiled  
the inky blues of the disappearing night, masking ugly reality with pretty  
colours from a child’s painting box. Invisible tendrils of poisonous intent  
snaked upwards from the factories, domestic boilers and vehicle exhausts,  
intertwined with the ostentatious evidence of man’s corruption in the city  
below. The golden glow of the life-giving sun struggled to break through  
the thinning cirrus, glinting and dazzling from glass towers, growing in  
strength and intensity as it drove the darkness from the streets.

 

"Do you think something went wrong?" Willow peered anxiously through  
the blinds covering the glass on the Hyperion's entrance door. “They should  
be back by now.” She turned towards Wesley who sat dozing in an armchair  
at the foot of the staircase. “Maybe Buffy didn't make it in time?"

 

"In time for what?" Whistler asked as he entered the lobby, clutching   
yet another mug of coffee and the last slice of lemon cake.

 

"Didn't you hear what I told her about Illyria?" Willow frowned at  
him. "You were right there, doing what you're doing now. “ She pursed her  
lips in disapproval and glared at him. “ Which seems to be the only thing  
you do '_do_' around here."

 

Whistler brushed the crumbs from his jacket and leaned on the reception   
desk. He picked up the research papers Wesley had brought down from Fred's   
room and gestured with them.

 

"Been thinkin'. This pitch 'bout Illyria bein' the one doin' the deal   
with the Dark Powers?" He sniffed and pushed the book towards Wesley's   
end of the counter. "Not her."

 

Wesley sat up straight and reached for his translation notes. He peered   
at them, squinting in the dim light. "It must be her," he argued. "The Dark  
Prince."

 

Whistler pushed himself away from the counter and squatted down beside  
Wesley. "Sure, she's evil, but only in a 'want to destroy the whole human  
race and rule the world again' kinda way. But God-King _don't_ equal  
Dark Prince. It also don't say she's on the side of 'evil' in the next  
big fight. In fact," he stood up and walked towards the door, raising the  
window blind and looking out onto the street, "it don't say she's on _any_  
side."

 

"And just what makes you an expert on all this?" Wesley demanded.

 

"Because I'm a former fence-sitter who recognises a fellow …," Whistler   
chuckled and paused for effect, "fence sitter. And I know a thing or two   
about Gods. Worked for enough of them in my time. Gods aren't big with the  
alliance makin'. Besides, she ain't one of them any more and she's still  
learnin' how to go about playin' with others. But one thing for sure, she's  
on no-one's side but her own. If you ask me …"

 

“No one’s asking you,” snapped Wesley.

 

“Figure of speech. Pardon me for speakin’ out of turn. But, as a bettin’  
man, my money’s on somebody else teamin’ up with the Forces of Darkness.   
Someone who’s lookin’ to get what’s theirs back.”

 

Willow thought for a moment. “Ooh, oooh, I know." She opened her laptop   
and pulled up the Wolfram and Hart Website. "Here." She turned the screen   
for Wesley to see. "I found the Wolfram and Hart personnel lists like you   
asked and see who takes over today as the new CEO."

 

"Wolfgang Hartram?" Wesley's spine tingled as a wave of fear flushed  
beneath his skin. "_And all the beasts shall be as one and shall rise  
anew when the darkness sweeps over the realms of the earth_."

 

\-----------------------------------------------------

 

 

 

A swathe of sunlight crept along the pavement, slowly closing the gap   
between the shadow cast by southern face of the office block and its entrance   
doors. In the shade afforded by the ambulatory, Drusilla faced Buffy, her   
eyes blazing with hatred and malevolence.

 

“Foolish girl. You think it’s that easy? You have no idea who you’re  
dealing with, no understanding of what it is to be a vampire.” She moved  
deeper into the shadows, inching closer to Spike as she did so but never  
dropping her gaze from Buffy.

 

“_Lots of merry games we've played. Of them we've had enough. And   
now I think that we will try. A game of Blind Man's Buff_.”

 

She pulled a handkerchief from her bodice and held it over her eyes   
for a second, then flicked a challenge with it against Buffy’s cheek. “William  
is my knight, my Champion, he belongs to me in a way you can never comprehend.  
You think you were even the love of _Angel_’s life, the one that brought  
him true happiness?”

 

“Don’t you bring Angel into this! It has nothing to do with him.” Buffy   
slipped her hand into her pocket for the weapon she carried.

 

“Stupid child! It has _everything_ to do with him. He didn’t need  
_you_ to fulfil his destiny, Grandmother was the only one who  
could do that. His humanity always belonged to her.”

 

Drusilla turned her gaze on Spike. “_Don't you tumble over. Catch   
whom you can. Did you think you'd caught me? Poor blind man!_”

 

She held her hands in front of her face, briefly making a fan with  
her fingers before snapping them towards Buffy in a gesture of dismissal  
“ You should have let him kill me when he offered it to you,” she hissed.  
She held out the handkerchief towards Spike. “Come with me, my love. It’s  
time for you to claim what is yours.”

 

Buffy raised her stake and lunged towards Drusilla. “Maybe I _did_   
make a mistake. Once! Not gonna repeat it.”

 

She drove the wood towards Drusilla’s heart in the same instant that  
Spike stepped into the gap between them. The stake pierced his ribcage,  
missing his heart by the merest fraction.

 

“Spike!” cried Buffy, reaching for him.

 

“Still can’t do it, can you Slayer?” Spike pulled the stake from his  
side and groaned. “Can still hurt me though, grant you that.” He fell  
against Drusilla and closed his eyes against the pain.

 

Drusilla hooked his left arm across her shoulder. . “You had your chance,”  
she spat at Buffy. “You didn’t play fair. Kept changing the rules. It’s  
my turn to play again now.” She glanced over Buffy’s shoulder to where  
Angel was making his way back along the shaded side of the street. “_Blindfold  
Molly, turn her round. Now then, away you go!_ Angel won’t want you.  
He’s playing a different game.”

 

As Angel reached the paved terrace, the main doors of the tower block   
flew open.

 

“_And one man lay in another's way, _

 

Then laws were made to keep fair play. Ta Ta.” Drusilla trilled.

 

A whirling maelstrom of darkness surged out, swept her and Spike into   
its centre and sucked them inside the building, slamming the doors shut   
again in its wake. Buffy threw herself against them, heaving with her full   
strength in an attempt to force them open.

 

“Angel!” she called. “Drusilla’s taken Spike. He’s …”

 

Angel didn’t wait for her to finish. He threw himself into the glass  
panel only to ricochet off it perilously close to the sunlit edge of the  
terrace. “Force field,” he said unnecessarily as Buffy helped him to his  
feet. “We’ll never get in past that.” He frowned slightly at her. “What  
are you doing here? I thought you were organising the evacuation to Cleveland.”

 

Buffy stared morosely past him towards the building that was denying  
her access. “I was. I mean I have.” She shook herself slightly and refocused  
on Angel. “We’d better get under cover.”

 

Angel led the way round to the back to the car pool entrance, which   
was open in readiness for the early arrivals. “There’s a way to the underground   
passages from here, “ he explained, “if security doesn’t spot us before   
we can get to it.” He peeked inside. “All quiet. Now, explain why you’re   
here.”

 

Buffy followed him into the parking area, checking warily around her  
as they made their way cautiously towards the access to the lower level.  
“Willow wanted to warn you about Illyria. Wesley thinks she might be working  
for the other side to get her power back.”

 

Angel folded his arms and smiled slightly. “And you didn’t think of   
using one of these?” He produced a cell phone from inside his jacket and   
waved it in front of her eyes. He flipped it open and dialled. “Lorne. Illyria  
with you?” Angel deliberately kept his voice light, not betraying the anxiety  
he’d felt at hearing Wesley’s message. “No, I didn’t catch it. She was  
right about the time thing. It disappeared as soon as it reached Culver.”

 

Buffy tugged his sleeve and gestured towards a door, with an inquiring  
glance.

 

Angel shook his head in response. “No. Literally, disappeared.” he  
continued into the phone. “Lorne, where are you headed? Back to the hotel.  
That’s good.” He stopped, focused on the noises coming from the lift shaft  
beside them, snapped the phone shut and pushed Buffy into the back of an  
empty vehicle.

 

\----------------------------------------

 

\--

 

Lorne raised his eyes to the sky and grimaced at the sight of the gaudy   
sunrise. “Don’t they realise what they’re doing?” he asked Illyria.

 

His companion ignored him and strode on rapidly, forcing him to increase  
his pace to keep up with her.

 

“The air.” Lorne waved his arms over his head in demonstration. “It’s  
killing people.” He stepped out of the way of an old woman busily restraining  
a small dog from dashing across the busy junction ahead of them. “And  
animals.”

 

“I see no weapons of air,” Illyria stopped and scanned the skyline.

 

“That’s just it,” Lorne complained. “They’re invisible. And strictly  
speaking they’re not weapons. Not like…” he paused, steeling himself against  
the anguish of recollecting what he’d done at Angel’s request. “Not like  
pulling the trigger of a gun on a living human being, no matter how low down  
and dirty he might be.”

 

Illyria moved on again, at a slower pace. “How do these invisible weapons  
kill?” she asked, scrutinising the pigeons attacking the remains of someone’s  
discarded burger bun. “I see no injuries, no blood.”

 

“That’s the problem,” Lorne grumbled. “Can’t see the damage until it’s  
too late. It’s all hidden, festering, destroying from the inside ‘til  
a body can’t take any more and just gives up.” He pointed at the rose bushes  
outside the BBQ Restaurant. “They look healthy, don’t they? But they’re  
fed poisons to keep them looking that way. And next year – there’ll be new  
ones replacing the ones that got canned.” Lorne wrinkled his nose in disgust.  
“Everything’s expendable. Everything and everyone.”

 

Illyria paused for a second and tilted her head towards the shrubbery.  
“I no longer hear the music.” She repeated the lament she’d uttered on  
the loss of her powers. “Yet you, a mere minion, have that which was ripped  
from me. You hear the song of the green.”

 

Lorne sighed. “I _am_ the song, Evita. That’s why they chose me.”  
A faint warbling of ‘If I ruled the world’ emanated from within his jacket.  
He reached inside and pulled out his cell phone. “Angel! We were just  
talking about you. You catch the car?”

 

\----------------------------------------   
\------------------------

 

The soft glow from two shell-shaped wall lights shone against the art   
deco panelling. Beneath them, two tall stemmed glasses stood beside a single  
red rose, the honey coloured liquid they contained hazily duplicated in  
the mirrored table top on which they rested. Spike pulled himself to his  
feet and gazed around the room into which he and Drusilla had been deposited   
by the sinister whirlwind. The gold plaster bands running up the walls and   
across the ceiling, the crimson curtains covering the windows and the deep   
blue carpet decorated with a pattern of red and gold swirls were all familiar;   
images and textures from another time and place.

 

The arm of an old fashioned gramophone swung across its turntable with  
a metallic ‘clunk’ and dropped onto the waiting disc. Drusilla picked  
one of the champagne flutes from the table and swayed towards Spike as  
Sinatra’s voice wafted softly from the speaker.

 

“_I’ve got you under my skin_.”

 

Drusilla offered the delicate crystal to Spike, leaned back across  
his outstretched arm and reached for the second glass.

 

“_I’ve got you deep in the heart of me_.”

 

“Do you remember?” she purred, placing her arms round his neck and   
moving sensuously against him, grinding her hips on his in time to the rhythm.  
“Dancing in the dark?”

 

“_So deep in my heart, you’re really a part of me_.”

 

“We feasted on lovers that night.” She pulled him closer, turning him   
away from the mirror and the lamps.

 

“_I’ve got you under my skin_.”

 

“1936. Chicago. The Lake Theatre. I remember.” Spike murmured, pushing  
himself out of her embrace. “A bird sang it in the film.”

 

Drusilla drained her glass, replaced it on the table and held out her   
arms towards him. “Everything you ever wanted can be yours now, if you’ll   
dance with me once more.”

 

“_I’ve tried so not to give in._

 

I’ve said to myself this affair never will go so well.”

 

Spike looked around the room again. On the surface, it had all the  
appearance of a typical pre-World War II hotel suite, taking much of its  
inspiration from cinema decoration and interior design.

 

“_But why should I try to resist, when darling I know so well,_

 

I’ve got you under my skin.“

 

Yet from the 1920’s Art Deco lighted Coca-Cola mirror, to the onyx  
clock, the room screamed ‘fake’. Spike examined the glass in his hand  
and shook his head.

 

“I’d sacrifice anything come what might

 

For the sake of having you near”

 

“You think I ever wanted any of this?” Spike swept the room with a wave   
of his arm. “I _never_

 

“Perhaps she doesn’t,” said a voice from the doorway, “but I do.”

 

“_In spite of the warning voice that comes in the night_

 

And repeats and repeats in my ears.”

 

Spike flinched at the sound of his own voice and turned to face the   
adversary whose plans had been thwarted with the help of an amulet and   
an army of slayers. wanted this.” He  
set the glass carefully beside its twin. “Sorry Dru. Guess you don’t know  
me as well as you thought.”

 

“I  
know _exactly_ what you want, and who it is that’s always been in  
your way, always been your problem.” The First-Spike swaggered into the   
room, taking up position beside an art deco lamp and addressing the scantily   
clad bronze figure posed against the fanned glass shade. “You are, ya ponce!   
You’re my problem. You got it too good. What do I get? Bloody well toasted   
and ghosted is what I get innit. It’s not fair.” The First-Spike looked   
into Spike’s shocked face and grinned. “That about sum it up?”

 

“Toasted and ghosted!” Drusilla laughed and clapped her hands, delighting  
in the rhyme. “Oh Spike, you always say such pretty things.”

 

The First-Spike snorted. “Pretty? Pretty dim more like.” His features   
began to dissolve; the hollows beneath his cheekbones filled out, the eyes   
darkened. His entire form twisted and grew, re-shaping and morphing into   
that of Angelus.

 

“Well, you’re new, and a little dim. There’s no belonging or deserving  
any more. You can take what you want, have what you want.”

 

“_Don’t you know little fool, you never can win. _

 

Use your mentality, wake up to reality.”

 

“You’re not him, nor me. You can’t touch me any more,” Spike snarled.  
“I know what you are. You’re The First.”

 

“_That’s right_,” The First-Spike drawled. “And if anyone knows  
all about you, it’s me. What?” He chuckled at Spike’s scowl. “You thought  
Slutty the Slayer’s plan got rid of me?” He shook his head. “Just slowed  
me down a little. Took out some of my boys and killed my main man.” He  
smirked and gave Drusilla and approving glance. “Got me a new one. Hell,  
got me a whole new gang all neatly packaged in a fresh body just waitin’  
to be filled with nummy badness.”

 

The lights dimmed, the walls heaving and shuddering like they’d done  
the night before.

 

“_Just the thought of you_

 

Makes me stop before I begin.”

 

Spike reeled against Drusilla as the floor undulated to the final bars  
of the song, the fading music giving way to the less melodious sound of  
a ringing telephone. He regained his balance, grasping the edge of the  
reception desk that replaced the mahogany bed in the centre of what _had_  
been a bedroom.

 

“He’s just arrived. Yes sir, I’ll send him through,” said a familiar  
voice from the other side of the counter.

 

“Ow!” Spike yelled. The ivory horn of a tiny figurine pierced his hand,   
impaling itself deep into the flesh.

 

“Spikey,” Harmony greeted him with a bright smile.

 

Spike raised his head. “Harmony. You look …” he groped for the appropriate   
words, swallowing the horrible feeling of déjà vu that assaulted  
him as he surveyed his surroundings. “Smashing.” He tugged at the unicorn,   
wrenching the horn from it as he pulled it from his palm. He placed the   
broken parts on the desk with an apologetic smile. “Sorry about the piece.”

 

Harmony tilted her head at him and smiled again. “Surprised to see  
me? I suppose Angel told you he’d fired me? But it didn’t matter, because  
the references he gave me were the best. Not that he should have fired  
me because I’d never have betrayed him if he’d had more confidence in  
me. It wasn’t fair.”

 

Spike shook his head in disbelief. “I really _must_ be in Hell   
this time.”

 

“Not Hell,” The First-Spike whispered in his ear. “_That_ wouldn’t   
be fair.”

 

“Well? Hello! What are you waiting for?” said Harmony. “The Boss is   
waiting.” She pointed at the office door. “I suppose you want _her_   
to go with you?” she jerked her head in Drusilla’s direction. “I can’t think  
why? I told them so, but of course no one listens to me. After all, what  
do I know? I was only the last _real_ girlfriend you had after she  
dumped you.”

 

Harmony’s prattle faded into the background as Spike drew nearer to   
Angel’s old office. The door looked the same as it always had. _Didn’t   
it_? He closed his eyes and concentrated, bringing images from the depths   
of his memory. He opened them again and stared at the door. There was a difference;  
a nameplate bearing the words ‘C.E.O. Senior Partner, Wolfgang Hartram’.

 

 

   
  
---|---


	12. 11 Then began the tempest to my soul

  
  
  
  
[](index.html)

 

[Home](index.html)

 

* * *

  
[  
Fanfic Home](Fanfic.html)

 

* * *

  
[Soul Searching Home](Soul%20Searching%20Home.html)

 

 

 

|    
Soul Searching

 

________________________________________________________

 

 

**Chapter 11: **Then began the tempest to my soul

 

Sunshine flowed along Wilshire Boulevard, fathomless power telescoped  
in invisible streams pouring across office windows, hotel entrances and  
car windscreens; the light running down the glass, exposing hidden grime,  
stains, and imperfections.

 

Lorne followed Illyria onto the sunny side of Wilshire Boulevard.  
He surveyed the highway and lowered his head at the sight of his reflection   
winking back at him from the freshly waxed bonnet of a car idling in the   
rush hour traffic. He peered at the ghostly image and grimaced.

 

“Can I be any more conspicuous? Because nothing says ‘_look at   
me_’ like a pair of crimson horns with _this_ suit. Better get   
out of the spotlight before the audience starts throwing critical reviews   
at us.”

 

Illyria regarded him coldly. “You wish to blend, to be unobserved,   
to be what you are not. The white-haired one told me I should do the same  
to move among humans.” She threw her head back. “I will assume the form  
of the one whose soul you seek.”

 

“Over my dismembered green corpse.” Lorne gripped her arm. “I’m  
supposed to keep an eye on you to make sure we _both _get back.”  
He scanned the street. “But I find myself unable to perform a similar costume  
change _being temporarily without a convenient telephone booth.  
_Besides, there’s a less painful way, for both of us. Down  
here.” He pulled her towards the underground car park of the Best Western  
Hotel.

 

“You dare presume…” Illyria began.

 

“Stow it Prima Donna. And start learning some new songs.” Lorne  
gritted his teeth at the harshness of his words. _’Whatever happened  
to Caritas?’_ He maintained his grasp of Illyria until they reached  
the cover of the concealing darkness in the sewers beneath the city.

 

“I would know more of this keeping of your eye,” Illyria shook Lorne’s   
hand from her arm. “The pledge you have made to another, to act as my   
jailer. From whence did the calumny originate? An insult so great cannot   
be disregarded.”

 

Lorne said nothing and plodded on through the shadows, head bowed.

 

“Your courage sits comfortably upon your shoulders,” Illyria observed.   
“Yet you tell me it came at too great a price. Much has changed since   
the days I first inhabited this shell, when you wore a clown’s mask to   
hide the terror you felt.”

 

Lorne paused at an intersection of interconnecting tunnels. He studied   
both paths for a few moments, then without a backward glance, he urged   
Illyria forward with a wave of his hand.

 

“Yes, much has changed. Yet things remain the same, ” Illyria said,  
following him into the dark.

 

\---------------------------

 

Under the recessed illuminations at Wolfram and Hart, sunlight tresses   
caressed cool, pale skin, a fraudulent simulation of an innocence and   
warmth that no longer existed. Blue eyes stared out of the pallid face into  
dark eyes curtained by midnight tresses. Black eyes returned the blue-eyed   
stare with calculated concentration; manipulative malevolence and mercurial   
madness revealing nothing of the ruined purity once resident within.

 

Harmony shifted under Drusilla’s gaze. “_What _are you looking  
at?”

 

“Poor Goldilocks.” Drusilla reached out and fondled Harmony’s hair,  
letting it flow through her fingers like strands of silken thread. “No  
sleeping in Blondie Bear’s bed for you. She let Harmony’s hair fall and  
smiled at her. “You know what they say about natural blondes?”

 

“Now look here…” Harmony moved to Drusilla’s side of the desk and  
folded her arms.

 

“Do you know how to play Cat’s Cradle?” Drusilla asked her. “Your  
new lover does.”

 

“Lover? Oh, you mean Hamilton? He’s not my … Hey! How did you know   
we…?”

 

“I. See. Things.” Drusilla spoke as if explaining something to a   
dull child. “He’s got everyone’s strings all tangley. They’ll not make   
the church now.” She patted Harmony’s head. “Run along little girl. And   
be careful, _that one’s_ not your special playmate any more.   
The beast has claws that catch and jaws that bite.” She mimicked a snapping  
mouth with her hand and turned her attention to Spike standing in front  
of the office door. “Something wicked this way comes,” she giggled, trotting  
over to his side.

 

Spike reached for the doorknob, then pulled back as the door opened  
and a tall figure came out into the reception area.

 

“Walk with me.” The new CEO - Marcus Hamilton’s animated corpse  
\- brushed past him and strode towards the lifts.

 

Spike was still gaping when the dark whirlwind swept them into its   
black maw.

 

“_You’re_ the dodgy preacher’s replacement?” he yelled above  
the roaring commotion of the gale.

 

“Hardly.” Hamilton’s measured tones, as cool as ever, possessed  
new harmonics, intimations of the multiple entities inhabiting his body.  
“A certain tenancy arrangement suits our purpose for the time being.”

 

 

Drusilla threw back her head and laughed, turning in the wind, her   
hair streaming, her long black coat flapping in time to the beat of the   
storm’s blasts.

 

“What’s with the tempest?” yelled Spike, holding the coat tails  
of his duster to stop it flying off into the maelstrom.

 

“Old habits die hard,” Hamilton’s impeccably manicured fingers straightened  
his tie before waving into the torrent of air swirling around them.  
“I never did understand the appeal of new technology. The cannon was a  
great improvement on the ballista, so they tell me, but I could never  
see it myself. A well directed lighting bolt doesn’t have the tendency  
to backfire on the one aiming it.”

 

The hurricane vanished, revealing Angel’s penthouse suite bathed   
in morning sunlight.

 

“But I haven’t brought you up here to talk business.” He paused.   
“That’s not strictly true, I have.” He held out a hand. “Wolfgang Hartram.”

 

Spike ignored the proffered hand and regarded him coldly, clenching  
and unclenching his fists, digging his nails into his palms. “Three in  
one, eh? Neat trick! Been done before of course,” he sneered.

 

Hartram lowered his arm and glanced at Drusilla who stood gazing   
out of the window, pressing her face to the glass and murmuring softly.

 

 

“It was sunny when Mummy played,” she said dreamily. “And the daisy-chains  
were jewelled crowns in my hair.” She turned her face towards Spike,  
her cheek caressing the pane, revelling in the glow. “Until Daddy brought   
the darkness.” A thunderous frown circled her brow. “And the screams.”

 

“Dru.” Spike held out his hands to her.

 

“No! The Angel beast must suffer as I did,” she raged. “Anne. My   
sweet little bird. Butchered her singing he did. Twisted the song. Made   
it bleed. All my playmates gone.”

 

Spike pulled her into his arms and stroked her hair. “He can’t hurt  
you any more,” he soothed.

 

“But he can. He does. Every day he does. No more quiet. No more  
peace. No more stained light. He took that last. A demon dressed in an  
Angel’s robes stealing my precious secrets in a holy space. His place  
wasn’t there!” Drusilla raised her face to Spike’s and fixed her eyes  
on his. “You can make it better.”

 

Spike clenched his jaw. ‘_Bloody bastard Angelus. Should have  
let you die_.’ He shook his head. “I can’t. I could _never_...  
Not like that.”

 

Drusilla pushed herself out of his embrace. “Not _that_ ,silly  
boy. You're not listening - nor seeing yet neither.” She wagged a finger  
at him and turned to the window. “Lovely view,” she said brightly. “I  
can see the whole world. _And_ all the others.”

 

“Darla was all about the view, not me, Pet,” Spike reminded her.

 

“All those little ants down there; just waiting to be covered in   
honey,” Drusilla continued. She whirled to face him. “You can make me a  
_new_ playmate.”

 

“Want _me_ to turn someone for you? Spike tilted his head,  
frowning his concern. “Not sick again are you?”

 

“Course not.” Drusilla’s smile faded. “Want to play our little game.   
Taking Mummy’s chair, sleeping in Daddy’s bed.” She grinned. “Eating baby  
for porridge.”

 

“Can't see what you’re gettin’ at here, Dru.”

 

Hartram walked over to the window and looked out towards the mountains.  
“You can see for miles on a clear day. See everything as clear as day,  
rather, from up here.“

 

“L.A. days aren’t exactly noted for their clarity,” snorted Spike.   
“And I seem to recall your predecessor being blinded for a time by the   
murky light this view offered.”

 

Hartram turned slowly and looked at him, studying his face, noting   
the tension in his posture and suspicion in his eyes. “I don’t believe   
the _vision_ was any clearer in that dingy basement flat of   
yours.”

 

“Visions!” scoffed Spike. “Depends who’s having ‘em and what he  
_says _he’s seen. Only ever met one bloke who told  
the real truth an' even then had a job winkling it out of him. So, no.  
I don’t believe in visions. Don’t hardly know what’s real any more, let  
alone trust fata morgana.”

 

“_This_ is real.” Hartram swept a hand around the suite and   
gestured at Drusilla twisting her hair into knots and humming to herself.   
“Why choose the mission impossible when you can have …?”

 

“You think I aim too high?”

 

Hartram circled the room, pausing in front of the sofa. “In one  
sense, not high enough.”

 

Spike narrowed his eyes. “I’m listenin’.”

 

“Everything you _really_ want is within your reach?” Hartram  
gestured at the suite. “This apartment …”

 

“You already tried the ‘temptation on the mountain’ ploy with Angel.   
Not biting.”

 

“We were mistaken in him. He didn’t have what it takes. You and  
Drusilla are all that’s left of the once invincible Aurelius clan.” Hartram  
raised his eyes to the ceiling and placed a hand on his breast. ”That  
was after the Great War, of course. Before that you vampires were nothings.  
When demons ruled …”

 

“Oh put a sock in it, Frankie, you sound like the Blue Queen.” Spike   
sank onto the sofa and folded his arms behind his head. “Not talkin’ ‘bout  
Angel’s Ancestors any more. Back to me getting’ what I want.”

 

Drusilla drifted over from the window and lowered herself onto his   
lap. “I know what you want. _Love_. It’s what you’ve always wanted.   
No one loved you. Not until I found you. ”She wrapped a hank of her hair   
around her wrist and glanced suggestively towards the bedroom. “Nor since,   
neither, my Dark Prince.”

 

“Mother,” he stammered, pushing Drusilla onto the floor. “_She_   
loved me.”

 

“Didn’t she just!” First-Spike materialised at Drusilla’s side.  
“Hot demon Mama just gagging for it. And how did you repay her? Oh, that’s   
right, you killed her – _again_.”

 

“_You _already played out that hand,” Spike snarled. “Got a   
fresh deck now. No more ‘poor maidens’. Seems I’m missing _that_   
Love card.”

 

Drusilla stretched out her arm. “Ooh, Spike, what a pretty evil  
you make.” Her hand passed through the incorporeal form and she giggled.  
“Tingles.” She crawled back onto the seat and ran her fingers through  
Spike’s hair. “Remember how we used to tingle?” she whispered.

 

Spike stared at Drusilla. “My Black Beauty,” he whispered, reaching  
out to touch her hair. He swallowed and closed his eyes. “I remember.”

 

“Be nice to get physical with a woman again without that pesky conscience  
getting in the way, wouldn’t it?” Hartram moderated First-Spike’s line.

 

 

Spike looked wildly from Drusilla to Hartram to First-Spike who  
was now deep in shadow in the entrance to the bedroom. He gripped the  
edge of the sofa, flexing the muscles in his legs ready for flight.

 

Everything you ever wanted is here for the taking. “Drusilla’s –   
_charms_ for want of a better word…” Hartram continued.

 

A shaft of sunlight blinded Spike for a second, pinning him in place.  
‘_No! Gotta stay. I know I do. What I **need** is here. Have to  
stay for a reason. Just can’t see it yet_.’

 

“You can see for miles as clear as day from up here,” said First-Spike   
echoing Hartram’s earlier words. He swaggered across the room into the   
sunshine and studied the city streets. “Or look down on everything; everything   
and every one. You’d never be beneath anyone ever again.”

 

‘_Another fine mess you’ve got me into William - you and that  
poet’s soul of yours.’_

 

“I mean, honestly, where has all that moon and June stuff ever gotten  
you?” First-Spike leered. “Always chasing the wrong woman. Not _one_  
of them ever saw the real you.”

 

“Except me”. Drusilla rested her head against Spike’s, her hair  
falling across his face, obscuring his sight for a second, and filling  
his eyes with the image of another dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty.

 

‘_And Fred_’. The one woman he’d not set his cap at. _She’d_   
seen him all right. He could never fool her with any of the ploys he used  
on the others. She was the reason he was here, why he’d sacrificed his  
most precious memories without a moment’s hesitation. _‘Focus. Spike.   
Got a job to do here_.’

 

“_Yeah_,” he drawled. “Not _one_ of ‘em. ‘Specially the  
Ponce who used to run this joint. Thought he was King of the Castle.  
Thought he deserved…” he paused for effect, “_everything_ more than  
I did.”

 

“He had it handed to him, didn’t he? _Every. Tim_e.” Hartram’s  
voice cut through the coagulated sticky mess that was Spike’s brain like  
citric acid. “Ever wonder what the price was _this_ time?”

 

‘_Now we’re getting’ to it._’ Spike leaned against the backrest   
and stared unwaveringly at a spot over Drusilla’s head. “I’m listening   
again,” he said evenly.

 

“Memories. That was the price. Thinks he’s better than you and  
yet _he_ traded other people’s memories - of his son.” Hartram  
responded in equally moderated tone. “But of course you already knew that.”

 

Spike remained motionless. Whatever else he might have wanted of   
Angel’s, right now the ability to conceal his thoughts and feelings was   
something he wished he’d practised sooner.

 

“What you _don’t_ know, and neither does he come to that, is  
that when he signed away the Shanshu for membership of the Circle of  
the Blackthorn…”

 

“It’s such a luscious secret. Can I tell?” Drusilla interrupted.

 

Hartram nodded his permission.

 

“It was Grandmother’s gift. She always did give lovely presents.   
All in such delicious wrapping.”

 

Ice coursed through Spike’s veins._ Darla? What had she said to  
Angel in the lift_?

 

Drusilla held a hand to her head. “I see it. Angel’s destiny all   
packaged up and damaged ever so sweetly. It’s bleeding now. She licked   
her fingers. A new playmate for me.” She touched Spike’s chest with her   
fingertips. “For you to give _me_. Make Daddy suffer as I do.”

 

“Angel’s humanity?” Spike’s voice cracked. “You see Connor?”

 

“Of course I see him.” Drusilla’s administered a sharp slap to Spike’s   
hand. “Pay attention to Mummy!” She pointed at the television screen across  
the room.

 

Spike followed the direction she’d indicated and recognised Connor’s   
beaten form lying bound and blindfolded on the small narrow bed of a sparsely  
furnished basement apartment. He lowered his eyes from the screen and  
shook his head.

 

Drusilla lifted his chin. “Don’t cry, my darling. It’ll only hurt  
him for a moment. Then he’ll be yours forever.”

 

“All Angel once had is yours for the taking.”

 

Hartram’s stately voice brought Spike back from the precipice. Choking   
down the bile that rose in his throat, he rose from his seat and forced   
himself to smile.

 

“That’s the plan then, is it? To hit Angel where it hurts him most.”   
He smirked. “I like it.”

 

“Drusilla, this suite, the cars, the power, his Shanshu. Yours and   
yours alone.”

 

“Cars? There’s cars as in _plural_? Lead on Macduff, I fancy  
a little test run.”

 

Hartram lead the way to the lifts. “We’ll take the elevator this   
time, if it makes you more comfortable.” He indicated the call button.   
“You can drive.”

 

\---------------------------------

 

In the dimly lit backseat of the Bentley, Buffy struggled ineffectually  
against Angel, trying to shift his body, which was pinning her against  
the back of the driver’s seat.

 

“_What_ the hell ….”

 

Angel covered her mouth with his hand. “Sshhh,” he whispered.

 

Buffy heard the ‘ping’ of the lift arriving, followed by the soft  
swoosh of its doors and a familiar voice echoing through the garage.

 

“You little beauties! All of you. _All_ mine.”

 

“And mine. You won’t forget Princess when you’re King, will you?”

 

“Never, my sweet. You shall have your pick of the finest carriages   
and the flunkiest minions.”

 

“I think you’ll find some additions to the collection that will  
suit all your needs,” said Hartram. “They were selected specifically with  
you in mind.”

 

Spike chuckled. “Let’s have the tour then Jeeves. I fancy taking   
my time getting to know some of _these _ladies.”

 

“The limousine range is this way,” Hartram’s voice barely concealed  
his anger at being treated as a servant. “As for taking your time. The  
offer we made is for a limited period only. No sampling the goods until  
the contract is signed.”

 

“Thought it _was _my time now?” replied Spike. “You know _the_   
time, the window of opportunity you missed back in Sunnydale when you   
sent that amulet you meant for Angel to wear?”

 

Angel tensed and grabbed the door, growling softly and slipping  
into vamp face. Buffy grasped his hand and squeezed a warning, huddling  
down beneath the level of the side window and holding her breath as the  
sound of Spike’s boots came closer.   
Besides, there’s a less painful way,   
for both of us. Down here.” 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
  
  
---|---


	13. 12His Soul Thou Canst Not Have

  
  
  
  
[](index.html)

 

[Home](index.html)

 

* * *

  
[  
Fanfic Home](Fanfic.html)

 

* * *

  
[Soul Searching Home](Soul%20Searching%20Home.html)

 

 

 

|    
Soul Searching

 

________________________________________________________

 

 

**Chapter 12:** His Soul Thou Canst Not Have._ Lord of  
himself, though not of lands; And having nothing, yet hath all._

 

The smooth stream of blue hummed softly against Willow’s skin. Azure   
currents flowed into hazy sky, collided, mingled and parted again. Deep   
aquamarine surged against sanguine, fought the dark undertow, finally giving  
way to the barrier blocking its progress. Willow ran her hands along the  
broad sweep of turquoise, following the contours of the channel, riding   
each wave as it swept alongside the snaking arterial conduits bordering   
its edge, shuddering to a halt at the cliff where terrazzo met carpet. Reflected  
lamplight glowed, pooling in mini swirls amid the flow and tow of the undercurrent.  
The young witch closed her eyes and followed the ocean blue streaming across  
the centre of the reception area, her breath escaping in short gasps as  
she fought the source of power.

 

“I know you’re here,” she ground the words through clenched teeth.

 

“Willow?”

 

She didn’t pause, her fingers buzzing at each marble chip beneath  
the deceptively smooth surface.

 

“Whoah!” She recoiled, shaking her hands. “There’s something here.   
I knew it! Memories in the fabric of the building,” she explained turning   
towards Wesley, “they sang to me.” She grasped his outstretched arm and   
stood up, brushing the dust from her skirt with her other hand. “. “I can  
feel the things that happened on the second floor. Maybe the walls can  
be persuaded to do the same.” She glanced towards the spot just inside the  
entrance and concentrated “There’s remnants of dark magic, very dark magic  
\- there.” She pointed to a here. There's a pentogram for… ”

 

“For opening the portal to Quortoth,” Lorne finished breathlessly  
for her as he burst through the front door.

 

“Are you sure?” Wesley asked. “I don’t remember…”

 

“It all went horribly wrong. “You were busy having your throat slit   
at the time.” Lorne glanced nervously over his shoulder. “I feel a spot   
of déjà vu approaching.”

 

“Is Illyria with you?”

 

“She is.” Illyria appeared from behind Lorne her glacial gaze fixed  
on Wesley. “She feels the need to do violence against the traitorous minion   
who dared question her motives.” She tilted her head and looked from Wesley   
to Willow. “Which of you gave voice to such a calumny?”

 

“Neither of us.” Wesley’s cool reply met with a blink of surprise  
from Willow. “The Watchers’ Diary suggested the Dark Prince might be you.  
I presume we were mistaken in our interpretation.”

 

“Show me,” Illyria commanded. “I would know my enemy that I might  
remove the deceiver’s tongue from his head.”

 

Willow suppressed a giggle. “Strictly speaking, it’s his pen you should  
remove not his tongue. Or maybe his quill.” She turned to Wesley. “Did  
they have quills back when?”

 

“Illyria,” Wesley soothed, “the Watcher’s Diary was written by many  
scholars who sought only to bring light in a world of darkness born of  
fear and ignorance. Its earliest recordings were entered long after you  
were laid to your rest in the Deeper Well.” He thought for a moment. “And  
yet you may hold the key to our understanding of them.” He pointed at the  
objects in Illyria’s hands. “Just as you hold the key to our understanding  
of the secrets locked in the walls.”

 

Illyria studied his face. “Your apology is acceptable.”

 

“Um. Did I miss something?” Lorne cupped a hand to his ear. “Or is  
Little Miss Blue Eyes learning to pick up on subtext? I’m detecting a  
change of key and whole new musical repertoire with the lack of the royal  
‘we’ in the lyrics.”

 

Wesley gave a small smile. “She’s adapting.”

 

\------------------------------------------------------

 

 

 

Spike stopped alongside the Bentley’s rear window, took a cigarette  
from the pack and lit it.

 

The familiar smell of tobacco wafted in through the partially open   
rear door, mingling with the expensively fragrant aroma of new leather;   
a patina of power protected beneath pale layers of costly cosseting and   
lengthy lubrication processes. Buffy pressed a hand to the pristine, white   
side panel to steady herself, but slid slowly down the smooth, supple fabric.  
Her other hand gripped the edge of Angel’s coat which she’d grabbed to  
prevent herself falling out when he’d released the door catch. The surface  
bore witness to the life of the garment’s owner; rain, sweat, and blood,  
old stains maiming its hardened black exterior. The crazed grainy texture  
caught the skin on her fingertips, bringing memories of another leather  
coat to which she’d clung in an attempt to save herself.

 

Drusilla watched the lighter flame flickering in the slight breeze   
drifting in from the street, gazing at its centre as the colour fluctuated   
on eddies of air. She snapped her head towards the side window and snarled.   
"A Fiery Angel comes again."

 

"What's that, Pet? "Spike closed his lighter and fumbled the attempt   
to pocket it, allowing it to fall to the cement floor. It sounded a metallic  
note as it struck and bounced beneath the Bentley. He bent down to retrieve  
it, nudging the door closed with his head.

 

"The Angel Beast… " Drusilla's voice was drowned by the squeal of  
rubber on tarmac heralding the arrival of a black limousine followed by  
a sports saloon. They purred past the vampires and parked on the opposite  
side of the garage alongside the performance cars.

 

Spike scanned the line of vehicles. “An S Series Jag !" he whooped.  
"Now _that’s_ more like it. C’mon Dru, you can play with the  
limo after we get you a driver flunky.” He gripped Drusilla's elbow and  
propelled her along in front of him.

 

The soft swish of leather, the familiar creak of boots, together with  
the echoing clack of heels, signalled Spike’s movement away from the Bentley   
towards the recent arrivals.

 

Buffy exhaled, pulled herself onto the backseat and squinted through   
the tiny, darkened rear window. "What now?" she whispered.

 

"We wait and see how this pans out before we make our move," Angel   
replied softly.

 

"And that would be…?"

 

"Shhh!”

 

Three burly figures, two tall, one much shorter, climbed out of the  
Jaguar. Their matching designer suits marked the vampires as members  
of the exclusive club of hired muscle beloved of the underworld. The short  
man took a briefcase from the boot of the limousine as the liveried driver  
opened the rear door and stood back, face impassive, keeping a watchful  
eye on Spike and Drusilla.

 

Wolfgang Hartram stared at his temporary replacement emerging from   
the back of the car. “Why are _you_ here?”

 

“Breakfast meeting. You wished to be kept fully informed of our progress   
and," Sirk raised the briefcase he’d been handed, for examination, “security  
matters.”

 

Hartram frowned. “Breakfast meeting? It slipped my mind in all the   
excitement.” He gestured towards Spike and Drusilla.

 

“Don’t tell me the delightfully shallow Ms Kendal omitted to flag  
it in your diary.” Sirk smiled wolfishly. “I felt sure she’d cater it  
perfectly. I was looking forward to very best America has to offer, some  
nutritionally defective carbohydrate and caffeine.”

 

He turned his attention to Spike who was making slow progress towards  
them dragging a reluctant Drusilla behind him. “William the Bloody,"  
Sirk called across the parking bays.

 

"The Fallen Watcher Bastard Misleader." Spike nodded in recognition.

 

 

"So we meet again. A little prematurely for the order of play.” Sirk   
shook his head at Hartram. “You really _are_ out of touch.”

 

“You forget yourself Mr Sirk,” said Hartram.

 

“Really? Do remind me, for the sake of our guests. Just who exactly   
is it I went to all that trouble for? Three _former _powerful demons   
banished to another dimension with the fall of the Old Ones with the advent   
of man's supremacy in this one.”

 

"And now we are here. What's to stop us killing you where you stand  
and re-possessing our property?" Hartram adjusted the cufflinks beneath  
his sleeves, revealing a flash of crimson brilliance against pristine white  
crispness.

 

"Merely the fact that you're…" Sirk paused. "What's the quaint expression   
of which Americans are so fond? 'Out of juice'. All that dimension hopping.   
And the battle. Not to mention single-handedly rebuilding Wolfram and Hart  
headquarters - metaphorically speaking." Sirk raised an eyebrow at Spike.  
"They do know how to use metaphor after all, although I doubt they're aware  
of it."

 

"_Ladybird, ladybird fly away home. Your house in on fire and your   
children are gone_." Drusilla whimpered. "Daddy burned them."

 

"Whereas working with your paramour was a very interesting experience,"  
Sirk observed. "She knows all about imagery. After all she _is _a  
metaphor."

 

He stepped towards Hartram. “You didn’t really think there wouldn’t   
be a price to pay for what I made possible do you?”

 

The suited minions moved closer together, forming a protective circle  
around Hartram.

 

"Relax boys. I hardly think Mr Sirk is here to cause us any real trouble.   
He merely wishes to barter a higher price for services rendered."

 

Sirk shifted the case from one hand to another. "Partly," he admitted.   
"And to ensure that things I contrived to put in place continue to operate   
smoothly until completion of the contract."

 

"You may have been invaluable in arranging our safe passage here,  
but we no longer require your presence for our continuing tenancy. We  
will have little trouble relieving you of our property which you held only  
temporarily to assist you in your work."

 

Sirk hugged the case to his chest. "My _work_," he sounded each   
word slowly, "is the result of decades of study and careful meticulous   
planning." He shot a suspicious look at Spike and Drusilla. "I'd hate for   
all that scholarly endeavour to turn to ash because someone didn't heed the  
warning about careful timing.”

 

"Time. All in motion. In the stars." Drusilla groaned.

 

“Quiet Dru. Want to hear what the man has to say.” Spike pulled her  
further away from the Bentley.

 

Hartram motioned the vampires away. “I’m sure we can come to an amicable  
arrangement.” He turned towards the door to the stairs, then stopped.  
“After I’ve rested. I think I’ll take the elevator.”

 

“And the books?” asked Sirk.

 

“Can wait.”

 

“My payment?”

 

“That too.” Hartram waved a hand in the direction of the cars. “There   
might be a bonus for a job well done. Have a look round. Pick something   
for yourself.”

 

\----------------------------------------

 

 

\---------------------------

 

A slow grin spread across Wesley’s face as he watched Illyria and  
Willow, heads bent together over the Watchers’ Diary.

 

“Two powerful beings forming an uneasy alliance in search of the Truth.  
Fighting for the common good. Their only weapons their incisive intelligence  
and the ability to cut through the crap,” he quipped.

 

Willow raised her head and smirked at him. “Careful,” she said. “You’re  
beginning to sound like Andrew. And we all know where that leads.”

 

“Lunch bags with Union flags?”

 

Willow rose from her seat, her expression softening. “Feeling all  
redundant?” She gazed into his eyes. “Or just ‘_beyond tired_’? When  
did you last sleep?”

 

Wesley rubbed a hand across his eyes. “Feels like a lifetime ago.”   
He sighed and gestured at Illyria. “And, yes, feeling somewhat like the   
proverbial spare at the wedding.”

 

Illyria closed the book and looked at him. “You speak in riddles again.”

 

“I’m sorry. It’s a hard habit to break. I’ll try to cut down on the  
metaphor.”

 

“Metaphor. This is a beast with which I am familiar. The Witch and   
I wrestled with it continuously in the Codex.”

 

“As I suspected,” Wesley muttered. “The problem - was in the translation   
or my interpretation?”

 

“Neither, actually,” said Willow.

 

“Then I don’t understand.”

 

Illyria nodded her assent that Willow explain further.

 

“I’m not sure I do, completely. But the Cliff Notes’ version? The  
Watchers’ Diaries were written over time. What came as news to me…” Willow  
bounced excitedly from foot to foot. “And this is _so_ cool – each  
time a passage is interpreted, it is literally re-written in light of the  
‘time’ in which it’s being read.”

 

Wesley frowned and picked up the Diaries. “You mean, re-interpreted?”

 

“No. Re-_written_. It’s like a historical document chronicling  
events and when someone from a later era reads it, they perceive those  
events through the filter of the age in which they live. You know, like  
‘_slavery is bad_’ nowadays so the President apologises to the Africans  
who were brought here centuries ago.”

 

“Judging earlier generations’ behaviour by today’s standards? But  
that’s just bad history!”

 

Willow glared at him. “Don’t make me repeat the ‘Indians’ – ‘Native  
Americans’ discussion I had with Giles. I’m trying to explain what Illyria  
_knows_ about the texts.”

 

“Sorry,” Wesley apologised again. “Where does that lead us?”

 

“Apart from opening all sorts of interesting doors on how to approach  
prophecies? Not a lot.” Willow smiled weakly. “There was a passage indicating  
the Dark Prince might be Spike. Or Drusilla. Not sure which.”

 

“We have deciphered a passage pointing to the White Haired One,” said  
Illyria

 

“Uh oh.” Lorne peered over the rim of his cocktail glass. “Do I detect   
a return of the Royal Deity?”

 

“We, as in Illyria and me,” Willow explained handing Wesley a sheet  
of paper.

 

"_Though much was taken, much abides; and though _

 

He has not now that strength which in old days

 

Moved heaven and earth, that which he is, we are –

 

Champions of the Light, one equal temper of heroic hearts,

 

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

 

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."

 

Wesley considered the translation. “Not the Dark Prince,” he concluded.  
“But leading the way to what we seek.” He pulled Lorne’s glass from his  
reach. “What did Angel say was happening over there?”

 

The phone on the reception desk began to ring.

 

\----------------------------------------

 

\----------------------------------

 

Hartram held the lift’s ‘_door open_’ button as he listened to  
the conclusion of Sirk’s summary.

 

“The second stage went without a hitch. The boy’s safely tucked up.”

 

 

“Safe? Angel’s already looking for him,” Spike scoffed.

 

“He can’t possibly know that….”

 

“Witnessed the whole snatch ‘n’ grab scene.”

 

“That’s not possible, you were all in the alleyway when…”

 

Hartram stepped back out of the lift. “Yes. Let us in on how precisely   
that could have happened.”

 

“Whenever the Ice Maiden’s around, time goes all wonky. We got the   
action replay a couple of hours ago.” Spike released Drusilla and moved   
closer to Sirk. "Seems your calculations were a little off," he challenged.

 

“It’s of no consequence. He’ll not find the boy.”

 

“What? Puttin’ him in my old basement flat’s hardly the work of the   
Brains’ Trust, “ Spike jeered. “First place he’ll look now that I’m here   
getting the temptation on the mountain treatment.”

 

“Give me some credit for having input into selecting a secure place,   
“replied Hartram. “He’s not at your apartment.”

 

“Looked like it to me. Same ‘_this-isn’t-a-home-it’s-just-a-room_’  
décor.”

 

“Appearances can be deceptive. _You_ should know that. It’s near  
enough for frequent family visits, far enough to let one of the cars show  
you what it can do.” Hartram eyed Drusilla maintaining her watch on the  
Bentley. “Take the lovely Drusilla for a short family visit.”

 

Drusilla scowled and continued to stare at the rear window. The darkened   
security glass revealed nothing of the interior. "_One fine day in the   
middle of the night, two dead men got up to fight_," she chanted.

 

Spike scrutinised the group of vampires lounging on the bonnet of  
the Jaguar. “I thought you said no trial run ‘til I’d signed up for the  
duration.”

 

"_Back to back they faced each other. Drew their swords and shot   
one another_r." Drusilla continued the children's paradox rhyme and   
gave Sirk one of her vacant smiles. "I think the boys are going to fight,"   
she said cheerfully. "But I know how this ends. _If you don't believe   
the story's true Ask the blind man, he saw it too_."

 

Sirk watched Spike nervously, and began edging towards the bodyguards.

 

Spike tilted his head at Sirk. “You sure Drusilla was the right one  
to recruit me?”

 

"I can't begin to tell you the pleasure I had working with your lady,  
William," Sirk began unctuously.

 

"It's _Spike_. To you." Retorted Spike. He pulled Drusilla into   
his arms. "What does he mean '_working with you_'?" he growled. “Since   
when?”

 

“Done it before.” Drusilla said as she wriggled free. “Not with _him_.   
Dry old stick.”

 

Spike snorted. “Not exactly known for your good taste, love.” He glanced   
at Sirk. “S’pose he’s not too bad, relatively speaking. Seem to remember   
a Chaos Demon listed on your bedstead notches.”

 

“She never learned to distinguish business from pleasure, our little   
Drusilla.” The First-Dru materialised beside Hartram. “Such a precious   
one. We’re…” She paused, searching the neon strip lights for inspiration.   
“So completely compatible.”

 

Drusilla cocked her head to the side and approached her mirror image.  
She prodded First-Dru’s chest with her index finger, watching in fascination   
as the digit disappeared. “It’s me. And it’s not me.” She clapped her hands   
excitedly. “Oooh, a riddle me ree!”

 

“Is this _thing_ really necessary to the next stage?” asked Sirk.   
“She’s hardly reliable. I recall that leading to some very nasty consequences   
involving many of your key players last time. Had it not been for Angel’s   
timely intervention…”

 

Drusilla lunged at Hartram, talons flashing, slicing through his jugular.   
“You!” she shrieked. “You made him do it. Setting us all aflame.”

 

Spike gripped her arms and pulled her off.

 

Hartram took a handkerchief from his top pocket and pressed it against   
his bloody neck. “Thank you. But there was no need. Really.”

 

“What were you sayin’ about weapons backfiring? You really should  
have done your homework on this one. It’s not so easy to pull her strings.”   
He turned Drusilla to face him. “What’s it feel like bein’ a puppet Dru?”

 

Drusilla went limp in his arms. “Need a Knight to cut my strings.”

 

 

“There _are_ no puppets here.” Hartram dabbed his wound, wincing   
slightly.

 

Spike narrowed his eyes. “It was _you_ in the dragon suit then?   
Why didn’t you finish Angel off?”

 

“There were other matters demanding our attention – that now require   
my presence again.” He stepped into the lift. “Don’t let the vampire leave  
until you’ve signed him up,” he ordered.

 

“What am I signing up to – exactly. Not going blindfold down the same  
road Angel did. Need the fine print spelled out.”

 

“There have been various translations of the Shanshu prophecy. All  
of them wrong,” began Sirk. “The interpretation of one word ‘_iri_’’   
– ‘_becoming_’ – or ‘_made manifest_’. Wyndham Pryce was mistaken   
not once, but twice. It can, indeed mean ‘live’ but his interpretation   
of ‘_become human_’ is, like so much of his work, flawed. The true   
meaning of ‘become’ carries the same significance as the Biblical reference   
written long afterwards.”

 

Hartram held out a hand towards First-Dru. “And the Word was made  
flesh.”

 

“You quoting scripture again?” Spike sneered. “Must be a little of  
the _pain-in-the-arse padre_

 

“Nothing at all actually,” replied Hartram. He offered his arm to  
First-Dru. “Come, my dear. It’s time to have a little more of _you_  
inside.”

 

“Still don’t know what I’m expected to do,” Spike told the closing   
doors.

 

“Angel unknowingly signed Connor away in his misguided attack on  
the members of the Blackthorn,” continued Sirk. “He merely removed the  
middlemen. _And_ he provided the means by which the Senior  
Partners could take a more hands-on approach in this dimension. In effect,  
he fast-tracked their plans for the vampire with a soul.”

 

“Angel?”

 

“He made it possible for them to take it to a new level. But it’s  
no longer all about him.”

 

“You walk in worlds others cannot comprehend,” Drusilla crooned stroking   
Spike’s face.

 

“Angel made it possible,” Sirk continued. “_You_ re-wrote history   
when you fought for your soul.” He stepped further away from Spike. “I’m   
surprised Giles didn’t take a greater interest in it, but then as far as  
I know, he wasn’t aware of the Shanshu Prophecy. Whereas Wyndham Pryce   
really should have known better.”

 

“Prophecies. Nothing but chimera.”

 

“You may be right. But others believe differently,” said Sirk. “And  
belief is a very powerful motivator. It can make people behave quite  
irrationally at times.”

 

“Like me not buying anything that I’ve heard since this place swallowed  
me into its belly?” Spike laughed.

 

“Something like that,” agreed Sirk. “You needed much more work. Weren’t  
nearly ready to be seduced. Pity” He shrugged. “Boys!”

 

Drusilla’s head snapped round towards the sound of Angel and Buffy   
bursting from their hiding place as the vampire bodyguards leapt to attack   
Spike. “Angel,” she snarled. “Come to spoil. Come to take what’s mine. Why  
won’t you stay with me Spike?”

 

Spike grabbed Sirk’s briefcase and walloped him hard with it, sending  
him flying into the nearest minions.

 

“You just don’t get it do you, Dru? I never wanted what Angel had.   
I only ever wanted what was mine.” He leapt the fallen bodies and sprinted   
towards the Jaguar.

 

Buffy took out the third vampire, dusting it with one flowing sweep  
of her arm. Angel lunged at the driver, sending him sprawling against  
a pillar. The man curled protectively, clutching a broken wrist and whimpering  
softly.

 

“Human!” Angel backed away.

 

“Still needs immobilising,” said Buffy, knocking the man out.

 

“Angel. Get Dru,” Spike called as Drusilla disappeared through the   
exit door to the stairs. “Too late!” He jumped into the Jaguar, threw the   
case on the passenger seat and gunned the engine.

 

Sirk and his companions struggled to their feet.

 

“Well get in!” yelled Spike drawing alongside Buffy and Angel. He  
slammed the gearshift into drive as they tumbled in and floored the accelerator,  
scattering the minions as the car roared out of the garage and into Washington  
Boulevard.

 

“Oh well,” Sirk grumbled, brushing dirt from his trousers. “Time for   
Plan B.”

 

“You thought I’d gone over, didn’t you, you Git!” Spike snarled at   
Angel. I could feel you. So could Dru. Just when I was getting your boy’s   
location out of Sirk. Your timing always _was_

 

“What? My timing is not lousy…” protested Angel. “And I didn’t think   
you’d…” He pulled the briefcase out from underneath him and passed it to  
Buffy. “ Why’d you grab the case?”

 

“Dunno. Something needing security at Evil Inc? Figured it’d be useful.”   
He checked the rear view mirror and jumped the red light at the junction.   
“Better get on the blower, Slayer, and have the Witch work a locator spell.”

 

Buffy flipped open her mobile and hit a speed dial key.

 

“Willow? Buffy. Need you to do something.”

 

Spike checked the rear view mirror again. “So far so good,” he murmured.

 

“Hang on, I’ll pass you to Angel.”

 

“You need something of Connor’s?” Angel thought for a second. “Closet  
in my room. You’ll find a dismantled crib. And there should be some stuffed  
toys. Will that do?”

 

Spike looked under the sun visor towards the sky as the whirr of helicopter   
blades grew louder. “Anyone see something we should be worried about?”

 

Angel closed the phone, reached over Spike’s shoulder and grabbed  
the wheel, steering the car onto the pavement.

 

“Everybody out. Now!”

 

****  
  
---|---


	14. 13And there be souls must be saved, and there be souls must not
be saved.

  
  
  
  
[](index.html)

 

[Home](index.html)

 

* * *

  
[  
Fanfic Home](Fanfic.html)

 

* * *

  
[Soul Searching Home](Soul%20Searching%20Home.html)

 

 

 

|    
Soul Searching

 

________________________________________________________

 

 

**Chapter 13: **And there be souls must be saved,   
and there be souls must not be saved.

 

The ebony aircraft cast a hostile shadow on the street below, a massive   
mechanical dragonfly venting invisible venomous fumes into the already   
polluted atmosphere. Malevolent wings gouged the air relentlessly, twin   
scimitar blades slicing in syncopated rhythm while a single multi-facetted   
glass eye searched the ground for its prey; the smoky tints of its exterior   
revealing nothing of the occupants of the craft.

 

Spike shoved Angel’s hands away from the steering wheel. “Hey! Back   
off, backseat driver.”

 

“I said. ‘_Everybody out_’.”

 

Spike squinted under the visor at the sun. “What the hell for - to  
get flambéed out there?”

 

“No. So we don’t lead them back to the hotel,” Angel said through   
gritted teeth.

 

“Didn’t you listen to a word Shortarsed Wimpy was sayin’? They _already  
know_ we’re based there.”

 

The helicopter hovered lower over the middle of the road ahead of   
them.

 

Angel gestured at it. “You got a better idea, Einstein? You think   
they’re gonna ask us to come peaceably with our hands up? They’re human.   
We’re dead.” He adjusted the wing mirror and scanned the pavement. “Unless   
we take to the sewers.”

 

“This baby can outrun them,” argued Spike checking the road behind.   
“Quick U-turn and we disappear.”

 

“Until we reach the next junction. Where we stop.”

 

“And they spot us from the sky again. Focus, Spike. Bright red, non-disappearable  
car. Eye-in-the-Sky. Psychopathic crew.” said Buffy, waving a hand at  
the helicopter landing in the road ahead.

 

"Right. Focus." Spike checked the slow moving traffic in the rear   
view mirror. "What d'you have in mind then?"

 

"We're parked on it," said Angel. He turned to Buffy, reached into  
the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a metal bar. "I need you  
to buy us a few seconds of non-frying time." "Use this to open the drain  
and get inside. Think you can fool them into thinking we're making a run  
for it?" he asked Spike.

 

Spike grinned and spun the car through 360 degrees, burning rubber  
onto the paving slabs. The helicopter took off again; its Cyclops eye  
watching for any movement that would indicate the direction the Jaguar  
was going to take.

 

Buffy leapt from the rear seat clutching the briefcase and prised   
open the manhole cover set in the pavement close to the car's rear wheels.  
"Now!" she yelled dropping down into the sewer.

 

Spike reversed the car until a front wheel touched the rim of the   
open drain. He flung open the driver's door and, hitching his duster over   
his head, followed Buffy into the underground passageway. Angel climbed   
over the gearshift, nudged it into drive, hit the accelerator pedal as he  
rolled out, and slid headfirst down the inspection shaft. The Jaguar moved  
slowly forward for a second, its near-side wheel spinning ineffectually   
inside the open manhole before coming to a halt with a mighty groaning of   
metal on metal as the rim jammed tight. The car collapsed sideways, its alarm  
shrieking in outrage at the severe list to port that threatened further injury  
to the suspension.

 

In the darkness below, Spike winced at the sound of the damage. "That   
was no way to treat a lady," he complained. "Cars are just like women.   
You have to treat 'em right or you'll never get the performance you want   
out of 'em."

 

"Shut up about the car, Spike," Angel growled. "We're not far from  
the entrance to the hotel basement. It's this way. " He strode ahead  
of Spike. "Tell me what went on back there. Was that Hamilton we heard?"

 

"Yeah." Spike cast a final glance up the drain shaft and walked slowly  
after Angel.

 

Buffy picked up the briefcase and followed them both. "Who's Hamilton?"   
she asked.

 

Angel ignored her question. "But he's dead. We saw his body in the  
rubble."

 

"We also watched as said rubble got the makeover to end all makeovers."   
Spike rubbed the tips of his slightly singed hair. "Hamilton's changed   
his name. It's Wolfgang Hartram now. He's the builder and decorator responsible   
for the renovations. You should see that place now it's finished. All brand  
spanking shiny and new."

 

“Like the shiny new car you thought would make such a good getaway  
car?” asked Buffy. " A state of the art Jaguar worth…” She paused. “A  
lot. And _red_ \- not what I'd call a good idea."

 

“No. _Your_ idea of the perfect getaway car was a _Winnebago_.   
And look where that got us. Stuck out in the middle of the desert surrounded  
by rejects from Python's Holy Grail who were trying to kill us all. Spike  
shook his head. "Bad choice. I knew I should have nicked the Porsche."

 

“You remember all that _now_? And you don't remember…? Never   
mind. What is it with men and fast cars?”

 

Spike whirled round to face her. “Yeah, I remember. That. _And_  
the fact that you always were a bossy, whiney little thing. And you're  
_still_ at it.”

 

"When you two have finished your little spat," Angel called as he   
placed his hands on the iron rungs of a ladder set into the wall, "it's   
this way."

 

\-------------------------------------------------------

 

 

 

 

Angel stared at the golden particles glistening under the dormant   
power of the locator spell, the ghostly outline of a pentangle glowing   
faintly in the middle of the circle of sand.

 

"This can't be good," he said scanning the deserted reception area.

 

"Is it worse than reckoning taking out the Black Thorn was a_ good_  
idea?" asked Spike.

 

Angel glowered at him.

 

"You heard Hartram, Angel. You signed away the Shanshu, gave them   
a blank cheque as far as Connor was concerned and all we got in return   
was to take out the middlemen. Now we're facing the Senior Partners up   
front and personal. And not just them."

 

"Let me guess," interrupted Buffy. "They brought a backing group?"

 

"Worse," replied Spike. "The Terrible Triplets got themselves wired   
into Hamilton's former premises and fitted with long life batteries in   
the form of your friend and mine, The Hellmouth Ringmaster."

 

"The First."

 

Angel stared glumly at the sandy outline. "You think the locator  
spell backfired?"

 

"Oh yea of little faith." Willow emerged from the elevator struggling   
under the weight of her backpack. "It went just fine. Apart from the bit  
where the pentangle started showing me bits of your Pylean adventure. I  
think it got its dimensional time lines crossed." She grinned over at Buffy,  
her smile fading rapidly as she noted the tension pulsating in waves from  
both Slayer and Vampire glaring at one another beneath the curve of the  
main staircase.

 

"So you found Connor?" Angel licked his lips nervously. "Is he…"

 

Willow dropped the backpack to the floor and opened the front pocket.   
"He's alive," she said reassuringly. "He's not far from here and there   
are no demons with him. Yet." She pulled a sheet of paper out of her bag   
and called to Buffy. "You didn't bag Drusilla?"

 

"She got away," said Angel taking the address from her. "And is probably  
on her way there right now." He pulled his mobile phone from a pocket  
and speed-dialled Connor's number. "Connor's cell phone," he explained,  
hitting the loudspeaker button. The phone was answered on the fourth ring.

 

"Connor?"

 

"Connor can't come to the phone right now." Drusilla's unmistakable   
London accent reverberated through the lobby. "He's all tied up at the   
moment," she giggled. " His Daddy is too busy to take care of him. Always   
too busy taking care of everybody else. And he doesn't have a real Mummy,   
poor boy, nor even a pretend one made of wizard's fairytales. It's going   
to be such fun being a Mummy again. Can't talk now. I have so much to do,   
Ta Ta."

 

Spike clenched his jaw at the sound of Drusilla’s voice and dropped   
his eyes from Buffy’s, bringing their staring contest to an end. She touched  
his elbow lightly. “Spike. It’ll be all right,” she murmured gently.

 

 

“No,” he replied. “It won’t.”

 

Angel crossed the lobby to the reception desk and dialled the number  
Lorne had noted on his message pad after Mr Riley's call.

 

"Mrs Riley. It's Angel. I've found him." Angel paused frowning. "Angel.   
Of Wolfram and Hart. Your husband called earlier about your missing son,   
Connor." Angel listened to the speaker on the other end of the line for   
a few more seconds. "My mistake. Sorry to have troubled you," he said quietly   
before dropping the receiver back into its cradle.

 

"What's up?" Spike shook Buffy’s hand off his arm and crossed the   
room. He picked the number off the floor where Angel had dropped it. "Wrong  
number?"

 

"Wrong everything. They've never heard of me. More important, they've   
never heard of Connor." He looked into Spike's eyes. "They have no son.   
The wizard's fairytale memories are gone."

 

"Another side effect of taking out the Black Thorn?"

 

Angel shook his head. "No," he said slowly. "The Rileys still had   
their memories of Connor until a few hours ago. This is deliberate. Part   
of the plan."

 

"_I_ was part of the plan." Spike shot a glance at Willow. "But  
Drusilla put a stop to that by getting their time lines crossed. Question  
is not what have _they_ got in mind for the boy, it's what're _you_

 

"Stop Drusilla, you mean." Buffy joined the two vampires and sank   
into a chair beside them and handed the briefcase to Angel.

 

"I should have killed Dru a long time ago." Angel's weary voice echoed  
Spike's earlier thoughts. He stared unseeingly at the briefcase.

 

"But you didn't. No use cryin' over spilt blood, mate. Open the box   
and see what we got. Bound to be useful."

 

"Saddle up, amigos. The posse's heading this way," Lorne called from  
the doorway of Angel's office. He hurried over to the entrance doors and  
opened them. The sound of approaching helicopters mingled with the noise  
of traffic on Wilshere Boulevard. "You hear that? They're closing in."  
Lorne closed the doors and locked them. "Whistler gave us the address of  
the Hole in the Wall before he left for Cleveland with the others."

 

"He didn't need much persuading," Wesley added from the staircase.  
"Buffy did a fine job on him before she charged off to rescue you both  
from Illyria."

 

"We needed rescuing from the Queen of the Blues? First I heard of   
it. And why're _we_

 

Illyria appeared from behind Wesley and held up a small camera. "We   
no longer need them. We have this machine that allows us to travel back   
in time and freeze it whenever we wish."

 

"Courtesy of the Qwa'ha Xahn's evil plan to return Illyria from the   
other time line," added Wesley. "Knox made a video of Fred's work on the   
walls in her room."

 

"Other what?" asked Spike.

 

"Long story," said Lorne returning to the check in desk. "Part of   
the lost memories, _you_ should be getting back any time now."

 

"I'm not holding my breath," replied Spike. "Seems there's been too   
much messin' with folks' memories goin' on of late."

 

"That's just a side show to the main action that was the Watcher  
Willow and Illyria combo playing at this morning's matinee performance."  
Lorne hauled a battered Gladstone bag out from under the counter. "That  
was an experience not to be missed."

 

"Like watching paint dry?" Spike drummed his fingers on the hard  
shell of the briefcase and nudged Angel's shoulder. "C'mon, Broody Pants.  
What're you waitin' for? Open the bleedin' case. Sirk didn't bring beer  
to _his_ breakfast meeting."

 

Wesley placed the two small suitcases he'd carried downstairs on  
the central seating island. "Rutherford Sirk was there?"

 

"Buffy'll fill you in. While we go find the lad," said Spike, impatient   
for more action. "Seems Connor is the Shanshu the Prophecies were wittering   
on about and he’s definitely in need of a bit of ‘_White Knight to the  
rescue_’ action. But not before His Moodiness opens the…"

 

Angel clicked the metal clasps and raised the lid.

 

"Books!” Spike's disappointment was palpable. "More work for you  
Watcher types. Right. Let's be off."

 

Wesley picked one of the tomes from the case. "I know these." He  
fingered the cover, tracing the curl of a ram's horn etched in the leather.  
He opened the book, then placed it face down on the reception desk and  
reached into the briefcase for the second of three.

 

Spike peered at the Ram's head cover and turned the first page. "Didn't   
take you long to get through it then?" He flipped through the blank pages   
that made up the volume.

 

"This doesn't make any sense." Wesley's face creased in concentration.  
"Three books. The Wolf. The Ram. The Hart. A triptych. Each linked to  
the others. They're meant to be read as one continuous text."

 

"Except that's the one thing they're decidedly lacking." Spike sighed.  
"S'ppose I was wrong about them bein' important then?"

 

"_And all the beasts shall be as one and shall rise anew when the   
darkness sweeps over the realms of the earth_." Willow gazed at the   
cover illustrations. "I know why the books are empty."

 

"Of course." Wesley beamed at her and turned to Spike. "These are   
not important…"

 

Spike shrugged. "Can't win 'em all."

 

"They're crucial," Wesley finished. "Spike. I think you just gave   
us our first real break and probably a way to finding a weapon with which  
to defeat Wolfgang Hartram."

 

"_After_ we get Connor." Angel's tone was firm. "Buffy, Spike,   
Illyria, get whatever you need from the weapon chest in my room. Wes, you  
go with Lorne and Willow to Whistler's safe house and work on whatever it  
is you need to find that weapon." 

 

   
  
---|---


	15. 14Put your Ear Down Close to Your Soul and Listen Hard

  
  
  
  
[](index.html)

 

[Home](index.html)

 

* * *

  
[  
Fanfic Home](Fanfic.html)

 

* * *

  
[Soul Searching Home](Soul%20Searching%20Home.html)

 

 

 

|    
Soul Searching

 

________________________________________________________

 

 

**Chapter 14: **Put your Ear Down Close   
to Your Soul and Listen Hard. (Anne Sexton)

 

The smell of fear and sweat mingled with the metallic   
undercurrent emanating from the rumpled linen heaped on the single bed  
in the corner of the sparsely furnished apartment. The last rays of the  
sun bleeding through threadbare curtains spilled flushed veins of jagged  
light across dusty floorboards. A mirror on the wall above the bed, danced  
to the rumble of evening traffic, palpitating the bloody message on the  
glass. Angel moved closer, his footsteps echoing across the hollow space.

 

 

Invitation   
to a Birthday Party. RSVP Miss Drusilla xxx

 

"No sign of life," said Spike, emerging from the bathroom area.   
He scanned the drab room. "Not exactly Dru's taste in décor.   
She was always one for the height of fashion - circa 1890."

 

Angel stared into the mirror, its only reflections those of   
Buffy, Ilyria and a hand-written note stuck to one corner of its murky   
surface. He slumped onto the bed and plucked at the dingy blue blanket,   
inhaling the lingering scent of his son's suffering. "Why did he do   
it? He must have known it was suicide. Going back to Wolfram and Hart."

 

"I'd do it. Right person. Someone I loved." Buffy glanced at  
Spike, then dropped her gaze as his head swung towards her.

 

"What's that supposed to mean?" Spike frowned.

 

"Just recalling something someone said to me a lifetime ago."   
She flinched as Angel's fist smashed the mirror, sending shards flying.

 

"_I _was supposed to be the one who died," Angel snarled.  
He held up his hand and inspected his bleeding knuckles. "He'd be safe  
if I'd …." He stared unseeingly at Buffy. “If you…”

 

"You saying this is all my fault?" Buffy stepped closer to  
Angel. "That I should have listened to Giles and stayed away from that  
alley?"

 

“If the cap fits, Blondie …” Spike picked the scrap of paper  
from the floor, shook it free of splinters, read it and handed it to  
her. "If it hadn't been for you, there never would have been any _'miracle   
child'_ in the first place. “

 

“What?” Buffy swung round and stared at him.

 

“Angel would’ve kept the Shanshu for himself, ‘stead of trading   
it away for…”

 

"Spike!" Angel silenced him with a glare as he moved towards  
the door.

 

"No. Let him finish." Buffy grasped Angel’s arm and swung  
him to face her.

 

"You didn't tell her?" Spike shrugged. "Another lost memory.  
Lot of that going 'round.” He knelt beside the bed and checked underneath.  
“Thought the dragon cured you of that."

 

"Now's not the time," Angel muttered.

 

"And just when will that be?" Buffy held Angel's arm tighter.   
"Look at me, Angel. We don't _do_

 

Angel hung his head, wrapping his bleeding hands in the grimy   
sheet, his blood darkening the stains already there, merging with Connor's.

 

"It was a long time ago. An accident," Angel replied. "You  
don't remember because the Powers That Be turned back time." He averted  
her eyes. "Just for a day, I was human."

 

"And you gave it back?" Buffy asked quietly.

 

Spike came up from underneath the bed and brushed the dust  
from his hair. "Yup. For you." He raised his eyes to the ceiling.  
"Can't think why he'd do a thing like that."

 

"You haven't changed as much as you think, Angel," Buffy said   
shaking her head. She gazed at Spike as he rummaged in the battered   
bedside cabinet. "Whereas …" She clenched her jaw. "But none of that matters  
now."

 

Angel licked his lips nervously and continued staring at the  
blood stained sheet.

 

"Do you think he's dead?" asked Buffy softly.

 

"She wouldn't make it that easy for me," replied Angel. "I've   
been a guest at one of Drusilla's _'Birthday Parties' _before."

 

“Nothing here to pick up on,” Spike complained, emerging from   
the cupboard's innards. “Dru’s getting’ better at this little game.”

 

 

Angel got to his feet, folded the sheet neatly and laid it  
on the grey pillow swatch. "She learned from the best," he said flatly.   
"Angelus…" He paused. "_I_ taught her the divide and mislead."

 

"She must have gotten _very_ good to mislead Willow,"  
said Buffy. "And who's she dividing?"

 

"Don't know yet," replied Spike. "Everyone thinks Dru is just   
barking. But there's more to her than that. She knows what she wants   
\- and how to get it. Always has."

 

He led the way from the apartment and out into the Square.  
Civic Hall glowered in the rapidly falling gloom of evening, casting  
its oppressive shadow across the three figures following him.

 

"We should call Willow. Have her get a new fix on Connor."  
Buffy reached for her mobile.

 

Spike's head jerked up towards Civic Hall's upper floors. "Dru!"  
he yelled, sprinting for the entrance.

 

"Connor!" Angel ran alongside him.

 

"Huh?" Buffy hesitated, snapped her phone shut and joined the   
dash for the door.

 

Illyria remained motionless, staring at the open window on  
the third floor, listening to the sound of a woman singing a lullaby.

 

  
secrets any more. There's too much at stake."

 

 

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

The boardroom was unrecognisable, altered not only in content   
and decoration but in size and shape. The corporate need for order and  
utility metamorphosed to one of stuffy, cluttered antiquity, reeking   
of a confusion of dark secrets, forbidden pleasure, and claustrophobic   
propriety. Each surface was swathed in exotic fabric, heavy tapestry   
curtains shaded the window, antique rugs from the Levant covered every   
inch of floor. A small side table, flanked by a pair of upholstered armchairs,   
occupied one corner of the room. At its centre, the conference table displayed   
all the accoutrements of a Victorian Parlour at teatime. The accessories   
of formal council gatherings were gone, the crystal decanter replaced   
by a teapot, gleaming and winking its silver plate in the candlelight.   
Tiered stands piled high with fingers of shortbread and iced fancies jostled   
for space beside platters bearing Victoria sponge cake. Delicate china   
plates, their painted blush roses hidden beneath lace doilies perched alongside   
matching cups and saucers whose tiny spoons waited for the mistress of   
the house to begin the ceremony.

 

Drusilla stood beside the open window, fingering the ribbons  
of her bonnet with pale, thin hands, gloved once again in black lace.  
She twitched the curtains aside and gazed into the square below, watching   
the shadows lengthening as the sun sank behind the towers of Los Angeles.   
And as she watched, she sang a lullaby.

__

 

" Toora, loora, loora

 

Toora, loora, li

 

Toora, loora, loora

 

Hush, now, don't you cry "

 

On a chair beside the table, Connor strained against the ropes  
that bound him, gasping into the cloth tied across his mouth.

 

Drusilla crossed the room and removed the gag, sliding it down  
to circle his throat, caressing his jawbone with the tip of her finger.   
"Heard that before, have you? Memory is such a horrid child. She torments   
us with words and sounds and smells."

 

She tilted her head at some unheard noise and pulled the chair  
round to face the door. "They search for her. The one who was present  
at your first birthing. But she's lost. Just like you were when Daddy…"  
She turned her head towards the window. "They're coming for you now,"  
she said, beginning to dance, undulating with the melody of the new song  
she sang. "_Born of the dark waters of the daughter of night. Dancing  
without movement into the pale light._* You're a miracle child. Did  
you know that? That's why there's blancmange for your tea."

 

"Stay away from me crazy lady. My folks'll have called the  
police by now," croaked Connor

 

"That boy doesn't exist any more. You're already forgotten.   
Tinkered memories for tinkered souls." Drusilla reached out and smoothed   
Connor's damp hair.

 

He flinched and tried to move away from her but the restraints  
held him tight against the backrest.

 

"There, there, pretty little brother. No need to be afraid."  
She loosened the gag from around his neck. "It's them as is afraid  
of you. Always was. Right from the beginning." Her hand dropped from  
the silky fabric and gripped her temple. "Always will be as long as you  
have that nasty thing inside you. That's why they want me to…"

 

She stopped, turning towards the sound of running feet in the   
corridor outside. A chill descended on the room, the wind gusting through   
the open window flinging cards from the side table onto the floor

 

“I felt you burn at the Hellmouth.”, she said to the figure   
who appeared at her side. “You said we were forever.”

 

“And so we are, my sweet,” First Spike purred in her ear.

 

“Not the same,” pouted Drusilla. “I can’t feel _you_ at  
all.” She pushed a hand against his chest and wrinkled her nose in  
disgust.

 

"But you can, Pet. I'm inside you. Always have been. Making   
you feel." First Spike's fading form re-materialised as First Drusilla.   
"Come now, we've neglected our Birthday Boy too long."

 

Drusilla turned her attention back to Connor. "Yes, tell Mummy  
what it is that frightens you, and she'll make it all go away…"

 

The door burst open and Spike crashed through, battling against   
three burly demons.

 

"You're not my mother. Go to Hell," spluttered Connor.

 

"That isn't polite," Drusilla chided. " We have guests for  
tea. No time for travelling."

 

Spike careered into the table. Porcelain smashed to the floor   
and tea spewed through the air as he thrashed and kicked his assailants.   
Remnants of spongecake smeared from the bottom of his boot across a demon's  
face.

 

At the head of the table, Rutherford Sirk slumped against his   
neighbour, the red slit at his throat dripping gore into the empty teacup  
wobbling precariously on its rim in the saucer in front of him. Three  
Wolfram and Hart employees lay dead on the floor, their overturned chairs  
still warm and sticky with blood.

 

"_Boys and girls come out to play, the moon doth shine as   
bright as day_." Drusilla chanted.

 

"Ummph." Spike grunted as a demon backhanded him into the wall.   
"It's still daytime, Dru."

 

Drusilla moved from Connor's side and shoved Sirk's body from   
the chair.

 

"Couldn't have happened to a nicer fella," Spike commented  
as Sirk's cadaver thudded onto the rug.

 

Drusilla nudged the corpse with the toe of her high-buttoned  
boot. "This one wanted manners. Put his napkin back on the table and  
_would_ leave his fork down on my freshly starched linen.  
And Mr Hartram was most insistent he be punished for his earlier indiscretions."  
She sat in Sirk's chair and reached for the overturned teapot. "You're  
early," she remarked. "The tea is not yet drawn."

 

"Still playing dollies?" Spike sneered nodding at the other   
deceased tea party guests. "Thought you'd outgrown all that."

 

“We don’t grow, Spike. We grow neither old, nor do we change.   
That is not our fate.”

 

“I did. ’Sides, don’t hold with fate…”

 

Three demons attacked in unison, kicking him to the floor.

 

Drusilla tutted her disapproval and waved the demons away from  
the fallen vampire. "Cheek. We punish that. How's the boy ever going  
to learn manners? "

 

She picked up the first card of four cards strewn at her feet   
and turned it in her hand. "Three of Swords - reversed. Hmm." Drusilla   
stared at Spike's prostrate form. "Poor William. _A knight there was,  
and that a worthy man_. You can't do it, you know." She stared at  
the door. "We have to wait for Daddy. _He's_ late."

 

From outside the room, the sounds of scuffling and thumping   
grew closer. Buffy's unmistakable grunts of exertion combined with demonic  
snarls and the crack of bone on bone. Drusilla set her face in a welcoming  
smile.

 

Angel and Buffy were dragged into the parlour, each in the  
secure grip of a group of vampires.

 

"Illyria!" Spike called to the figure standing watching from  
the doorway. He struggled groggily to his feet, his temple streaming  
blood.

 

"This is not my fight. It suits neither my purpose, nor that  
of my Wesley."

 

"Why the Hell did we bring her?" Buffy squirmed in the grasp  
of her captors whose beefy chests and thick necks strained against  
the constraints of tight-fitting waistcoats and starched collars as they  
fought to control her. The demon leading the group glanced at Illyria.

 

 

"Same reason we agreed to wear these stupid suits?"

 

Drusilla looked up from the cards and regarded the former God   
King curiously. "The Bringer of Chaos," she murmured. "Trapped in time   
and yet timeless."

 

Illyria returned her gaze with cool indifference. "I do not   
acknowledge this fate. There are things I would learn from my Guide   
that will free me from all constraints." She stepped into the room, ignoring  
Spike's fight, the desperation in Angel's eyes.

 

Drusilla picked the other cards from the table and crossed  
the room, stepping over bodies with a graceful raising of her gown.  
"_The vastest things are those we may not learn_.+" She circled  
Illyria, fixing her eyes on the glacial blue orbs regarding her own  
dark ones. "_We are not taught to die, nor to be born. Nor how to burn  
with love_.+"

 

Illyria clutched her chest.

 

"Ah. There she is. Hidden but yet out of reach. " Drusilla  
smiled. "_How pitiful is our enforced return to those small things  
we are the masters of_.+" She held out the first of three cards for  
Illyria's inspection. On it, a crowned woman held up a sword with one  
hand and beckoned with the other, as if encouraging one of her subjects  
to approach. "A woman who has suffered deep sorrow and loss, but has gained  
wisdom. One who has overcome adversity at the hands of men." Drusilla's  
gaze remained steady. "But which woman - and which man?" she asked with  
a sly smile.

 

"What is that to me? I am no woman though constrained by this   
puny form." Illyria waved the card aside. "If your power be as Seer,   
I would have demonstration of its strength."

 

On the other side of the room, Spike lashed out at the nearest  
opponent, breaking a heavy dining chair across his head, shattering  
the wood and dancing out of the trajectory of lethal splinters. He shook  
the blood from his eyes and scanned the room, grimacing as a pair of  
vampires peeled themselves away from restraining Buffy and joined the  
group attacking him.

 

"You don't want demonstrations," he gasped. "Dru's not working  
solo." He picked up a broken piece of chair leg. "C'mon boys. Who's  
first for a spot of gone with the wind?"

 

The vampires circling Spike hesitated. One adjusted his cravat,   
bowing slightly. "Awaiting your orders, Miss Drusilla."

 

First Drusilla sashayed towards Spike, thrusting her hips provocatively.  
"_I've been wearing faces in the _strangest_ places, just to  
make a dream come true_." She turned and grinned maliciously at Buffy.  
"You see my Sweet William? His flower is the strangest thing I've seen.  
It's had its share of rain. Now it needs some feeling to light it's fiery  
flame again."

 

"He's not yours," said Buffy. "He'll _never_ be yours."

 

"But one cruel lie and it could die," finished First Dru. She   
gestured at the demons guarding Spike. "Kill him."

 

Buffy thrust her elbow into the face of the demon on her left.  
As he staggered under the blow, she broke his grip swung her arm low  
and punched the other in the groin. She sprinted away from them, grabbed  
another chair leg and ran towards Spike.

 

He was a blur of motion; black leather, white hair, and fangs   
whirling amid the as the vampires attacked in unison. Spike twirled,   
coat tails whipping. He executed a low spinning hook kick. One of his   
assailants flew over the armchair. Spike dived for the gap. The rug slid   
beneath him, propelling him into the table.

 

"Free the boy!" he yelled to Buffy before he disappeared under  
a mound of First-fuelled demons.

 

"Can't save 'em all, Buffy," First Drusilla jeered morphing   
back into First Spike. "Who's it gonna be? The vampire or the boy?"

 

 

Buffy swerved away from the vampires, concentrating instead   
on The First's smirking image. "Get. Out. Of. His. Face," she grated.

 

"Or you'll what?" First Spike leered at her, tongue grazing   
his bottom teeth. "No Slayer army. No amulet. No white magic." He watched   
his vampire hoard sweep the remains of the tea party from one end of   
the table and hoist an unconscious Spike onto the soiled lace.

 

"Picked the wrong side again. Knew it'd be the death of me  
one day." First Spike chuckled as he disappeared.

 

At the other end of the table, a lone tarot card lay face down  
amid the carnage. Illyria turned it over. An angel, stained with blood,  
sounded the ending of a life in a single trumpet call.

 

"There is an angel calling them to judgement," she remarked.  
"I would know what this means to you and your First Dark Lord."

 

Drusilla left Illyria's side and stood in front of Angel. "   
I was your slave, now you are mine. I am Time, I am Time." She opened   
her eyes wide. "Everyone's here. And the cake's been cut. Now's the proper  
time to blow out the lights." She grasped Angel's hair and wrenched his  
head back as he bowed it away from her gaze. "And you shall watch."

 

"Quantity T is equal to the difference in time – it is the  
proper time between events, measured by the clock." Fred's quantum  
reasoning sounded stilted in Illyria's clipped tones.

 

Drusilla clutched her head and staggered across the room towards  
Connor. "The wise woman is midwife both to birth and death," she moaned.  
She raised Connor's head and turned his neck, staring at Angel with  
the golden eyes of a vampire. "Time runs out for life. Dandelion clock  
ticking. Souls like seeds drifting”

 

"No!"

 

Angel's cry galvanised Buffy into action just as the leading  
vampire pulled an axe from the weapons sack at his feet and raised  
it above Spike's head. She picked a broken chair leg from the floor  
and launched herself at the axe-wielding vampire. She struck hard, deep  
into his heart, catching his weapon and sweeping the others into oblivion  
with swift precision. As the last one crumbled into dust, she dropped  
the axe and gently lifted Spike's head.

 

He groaned, wincing as she brushed a lock of blood-soaked hair  
out of his eyes, and grinned at her. "Take it we won then?"

 

She turned to where Angel knelt at Drusilla's feet; the guards  
forcing his head up to watch her. "Not yet. Angel needs rescuing."

 

 

Spike raised himself into a sitting position, swung his legs  
over the edge, and slid onto the floor. "In that case…" His knees  
buckled and Buffy caught him in a tight embrace. "_I'm_ no soddin'  
use," he finished, throwing an arm across her shoulder. "But give me  
a bit of time and I will be."

 

A leather-clad hand touched his wrist. Illyria stared at his  
watch and then into his eyes. "_This_ is the proper time," she  
intoned, tapping the watch face. "And I must _be _within its  
limitations, for otherwise I shall no longer be." She turned and looked  
at Connor. "Its measure lies with the vampire's child."

 

She strode across the room and wrenched Angel away from his   
guards, smashing the first with a backhanded blow and raising the other   
by the throat with one hand. Illyria moved through the room like a blue   
whirlwind, staking vampires and crushing demons beneath her slight form.

 

 

Drusilla hissed and released Connor's neck. "Interfering Missy,"  
she snarled.

 

Angel lunged at her seizing her head between both hands. "I'm   
sorry," he mouthed at Spike.

 

He twisted his hands and her neck cracked.

 

He lay her inert body gently on the ground and embraced Connor.   
"I thought I was going to lose you again, " he said, untying the ropes   
from his son's arms.

 

Connor shook the circulation back into his wrists and beamed  
at him. "Not that easy to get rid of." He nodded at Drusilla. "Who  
was she?"

 

"Someone I should have killed a long time ago," Angel replied.  
"But it's not for me to do now." He took the stake Buffy handed to  
him and offered it to Spike. "It's up to you, Spike."

 

Spike looked from Drusilla to the stake resting in his palm.  
"She said I couldn't do it. That we had to wait for you." He swallowed  
and raised tear-filled eyes to Angel's. "It's _Drusilla_," he choked.   
"My Dark Princess."

 

"She's not yours anymore."

 

Buffy's voice opened the sluice gates on the dam holding back   
Spike's grief. "What do _you _know?" he rounded on her, eyes streaming.   
"All she ever wanted was to be loved. _Our_ love was forever."

 

"_When the beloved one withdraws itself from your soul. Then  
you have lost your soul_." Illyria held out the note Angel had removed  
from the mirror earlier that evening. "This I know. Wesley demonstrated  
to me at his death."

 

Spike stared at her for an instant, then plunged the stake  
into Drusilla's heart, closing his eyes against the sight of her disintegrating   
form. He sank to his knees in the dust and wept.

 

 

 

 

 

****

   
  
---|---


	16. 15: Bright Shootes of Everlastingnesse

  
  
  
  
[](index.html)

 

[Home](index.html)

 

* * *

  
[  
Fanfic Home](Fanfic.html)

 

* * *

  
[Soul Searching Home](Soul%20Searching%20Home.html)

 

 

 

|    
Soul  
Searching

 

________________________________________________________

 

 

**Chapter 15** \- Bright Shootes of Everlastingnesse.

 

 

Westminster Chimes resonated through the silent room, a musical prelude   
to the proclamation of the hour by the ornate mantle clock. A circular   
mirror on the wall above the fireplace threw reflected candlelight back   
into the room. Across the top of the clock-face, a bronze angel draped his  
right arm over the shoulder of a classically attired woman. She regarded   
him with concern, supporting him and gently caressing his cheek with an outstretched  
hand. The angel's wings trembled with each vibration of the mahogany overmantle  
shelf as the brass hammer rose, fell, and struck.

 

"This artifice is but an imperfect measure of your linear time,"  
said Illyria. She stared at the images reflected in the gilt-framed mirror   
and tilted her head. "The glass is not sentient. And yet it lies."

 

Angel scrutinised the mantle-piece. Matching candlesticks stood at  
either end, each bearing a small dog lying atop a matchbox holder, its  
head raised towards the crook of the looped handle. Angel picked up a  
ceramic spill-holder and rotated it in his hands, tracing the outline  
of the wounded stag leaping away from the hound snapping at its heels.  
Placing it beside a plump shepherdess cuddling a newborn lamb, he turned  
back towards the ruined parlour. "She must have had it made to remind her  
of home." He glanced at Connor who was picking his way across the mess  
on the tea table, loading a plate with what he could salvage from the carnage.  
"Her human home."

 

Connor swallowed a piece of cake. "She forgot to feed me a  
lot of the time, but she did a great job with this stuff," he said indicating  
the furnishings and ornaments. "But why a vampire would want a mirror?  
I thought you didn't have a reflection?"

 

"Look again, Miracle Child," commanded Illyria.

 

In the tarnished surface, three ghostly images were barely recognisable   
as Buffy, Connor and Illyria, while five bright spheres glowed brightly,   
flickering and dancing in the soft light. One rose as Spike pulled himself   
to his feet, another was immobile on the spot where Angel stood squinting   
at the glass, and a third, beside Illyria, shifted and pulsated when she   
moved, as if tethered by an invisible cord.

 

"Souls," breathed Buffy. She gazed at Spike and reached out to touch  
him. "I can see your soul."

 

Spike snarled, morphing into gameface as her fingers brushed  
his arm. Buffy blocked a punch that never landed as he lunged forward.  
The demon leading a new assault from the corridor exploded as Spike drove  
the stake with which he'd just killed Drusilla into its heart.

 

"Weapons!" Buffy yelled, diving for the bag at her feet. She threw  
a stake to Angel and the three of them formed up to face the oncoming  
attack.

 

Spike grinned at her. "Just like old times. The three of us together  
again. Fightin' the good fight. All for one. One for …."

 

"Not really," Buffy threw him a glance. "Nowadays I find it almost  
impossible to dislike you."

 

"Connor. The door," Angel grunted, dispatching the two demons on  
either side, with a rapid double-strike to his left and right.

 

Connor hurtled through the fight, rolling to escape injury from blows   
from above. He shoved the door shut, forcing the next wave of security   
guards back into the corridor, and twisted the key. The satisfying clunk   
of the deadlock bars died away as the last of the demons drifted to the   
floor as fine particles.

 

Buffy pressed her ear to the heavy wooden door panel. "I think they've  
gone."

 

Connor frowned. "Maybe they went for another key?"

 

Spike stiffened at the word and backed away.

 

"They do not need a key, child. For just as they cannot enter,  
neither can we leave," said Illyria.

 

"We're trapped?"

 

Illyria pointed at the mirror. "There is another doorway."

 

Connor moved across the room to stand beside her. "You mean like  
a secret passage?"

 

Buffy snorted. "I don't think so, junior. This isn't D&amp;D."

 

Spike raised his eyebrows. "Oh no? Look again, Blondie."

 

Buffy wrinkled her nose in concentration as she searched for concealed  
mechanisms and hidden doors.'  

 

"Not there." Angel took hold of her elbow and propelled her closer.   
"_There_." He pointed at the glass. "What do you see behind us?"

 

She stared for a second, swung round and checked the room, then replied.  
"Something impossible. Or magical. Or so straight out of Wonderland   
that if I see a bottle with a label saying '_drink me_', I think I'll  
pass."

 

In the reflection, where earlier there had been only a few battered   
items of heavy wooden furniture, two metal doors towered over the room,   
reducing everything else to pieces from a doll's house. 'A hairline crack   
ran between the glowering gates, smoke curling out from within, water dripping   
from the top, droplets channelling down millennia-old verdigris.'

 

"You know that's gonna make one _hell _of a screech when it  
opens." Spike took a cigarette from a pack and lit it.

 

 

 

"But where does it open _to_?" Connor asked.

 

"Where Wesley would return me, if he could."  Illyria's fingers  
searched the edges of the mirror. "Where I would gladly go but for Winifred  
Burkle's resistance."

 

Connor spun round and looked at her closely for the first time since  
she'd entered the room. "Fred! " he gasped. He grasped Illyria by the  
shoulders and shook her. "What have you done with her?" he demanded.

 

Illyria swatted him away with a flick of one arm. "_She_ is  
still here, the one who witnessed your birth, her soul tethered to the  
shell she once owned. _I_ did nothing. My Qwa'ha Xahn chose her as  
the vessel that I might return to claim my kingdom."

 

"And that turned out _so_ well." Spike ground the cigarette  
butt into the carpet and strode over to the mirror. "So if this is the  
way to…" he waved his arms in the direction of the mountains, "wherever,  
how do we get out of _here_? I mean _we're _ok." He gestured  
at himself and Angel. "We can go for ages without feeding, but you lot need  
regular refuelling." He glanced at Illyria. "Not sure about you, Your Chilliness.   
Never did understand what Wes said about your metabolism."

 

Buffy shook her head.  "Connor asked the right question a while  
back."  She lifted the mirror from the wall.  " What _would  
_a vampire want with a mirror?"

 

The fireplace swung outwards revealing a narrow staircase lit by  
wall-lamps.

 

"Escape route." Spike nodded and pursed his lips. "Dru never ceases   
to amaze me." He chuckled softly and turned to Angel. "Hey, remember the   
time she…"

 

Angel stopped him with a look that said '_not now_', and started   
down the staircase.

 

Spike sighed and took one last look at the dust that had been Drusilla.

 

"You can bring me back," First Dru whispered in his ear. "Wolfram   
and Hart brought Darla back. It's so easy." She wove her body round his,   
sinuously, seductively, snakelike.

 

"Spike!" Buffy called from the doorway.

 

"They can help you make me human again, my William," said First Drusilla.  
"We can be as we were when we first met."

 

"But you wouldn't be my Drusilla," Spike whispered gruffly as he  
went through the exit Buffy held open for him.

 

As he passed her, Buffy reached up and kissed him tenderly on the   
lips. "What you just did for everyone." She paused and gazed at his face.   
"I think I'm about to repeat myself here, and you look a whole lot better   
than you did when last said this, but… I won't forget it."

 

Spike hung his head and closed his eyes. "I remember," he said softly.  
"Glory." He grimaced, struggling to grasp the fleeting memory. "No."  
He shook his head. "It's gone."

 

"The memory?" Buffy released his face. "Or why you did it?"

 

Spike laughed. "Yeah. That's _exactly _how it happens. I can   
find the _whats_ but not the _whys_." He jerked his head towards  
Illyria. "Like Blue there. I see what she's carrying, but don't understand  
why she's carrying it."

 

"You have not evolved very far, vampire. Still stupid as you were   
when crawling in the dirt beneath my feet." Illyria held the mirror close   
to her breast. "Your salvation was to be found with this once all-powerful  
Slayer. Mine rests with one whose power has been handed down through generations  
of….

 

"Give it a rest, can't you? An '_it's important_' would have   
done." 

 

Spike took the remaining steps two at a time, bounded onto the sidewalk,   
and bounced off the rear door of a waiting Mercedes. He grinned through   
the window at Angel and Connor. "We still got connections then?" He opened   
the door, and stepped aside for Buffy and Illyria to squeeze in beside Willow.   
As he climbed into the passenger seat beside Wesley, he tapped Lorne on   
the shoulder. "Home, James, and don't spare the horses."

 

Lorne shot him a rictus of a smile. "Um. There'll be a little deviation   
involved."

 

"Deviation?"

 

"Wesley and Willow need to do some ….um …._shopping_."

 

Spike raised his eyebrows.

 

"Not shopping," said Willow brightly from the back of the car. "More  
_browsing_."

 

"At the museum," Wesley added. "We've just come from the movies.  
A very educational series of films by the late Mr Knox and his associates."

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------

 

__________________________________________________________________

 

***author's note**. Before reading the remainder of this  
chapter, it may help to read  Chapter 14 of Family: Bood Calls to  
Blood.

 

__________________________________________________________________

 

"Stop! Rewind. Now forward a little."

 

"There. Can you go on closer on that?"

 

"Sure." Willow's hands flew across the keyboard. "I just have to  
save this… to here. And open it here." She looked up at Wesley. "Which  
part of the screeencap do you want?"

 

"The wardrobe door. I think I see something…. Can you take me in  
closer?"

 

Willow frowned. "More equations. Fred was big into space-time theory  
by the looks of things…. Whoah! _That’s _familiar."

 

Tiny cursive script forming a shell-like pattern curled around round  
the equation in the centre of the frame.  

__

 

"The soul, which is spirit, can not dwell in dust; it is carried  
along to dwell in the blood,_"  _Wesley read aloud. "St  
Augustine, I believe."

 

"No. Something Spike's big on. It all comes back to blood."

 

"_Why can't I stay_?" whispered Wesley.

 

"Here?" Willow looked round the room in confusion.

 

Wesley wiped a hand across his eyes. "That was the last thing Fred  
said to me."

 

"I'm not sure I'm getting the connection."

 

 "It was Fred's blood that summoned Illyria," Wesley replied   
wearily.

 

"I think my brain fell out somewhere along the way," moaned Willow.   
What with the Hole in the Wall turning out to be Spike's apartment and   
the_ real_ Hole in the Wall blown apart by those Wolfram and Hart commandos  
from the helicopters."

 

"That Whistler guy could make it big in showbiz. " Lorne called from  
the kitchen area. "Knows when to throw the audience a line. Smart too.  
He figured we were under surveilance."

 

Willow stared glumly at the frozen image. "And now Fred going all   
freakily mystical in the middle of some really hard science." She looked  
up at Wesley. "Lorne filled me in on Illyria's summoning, but are you sure  
these films are the key to finding Fred?"

 

 "_A_ key. We just need to know where to look for it."  
Wesley tapped the monitor. " Go back to the other video. The one that  
shows Illyria's sarcophagus."

 

Lorne appeared carrying three steaming mugs and set one down beside Willow.  
“Here you are my little pumpkin pie. Coffee fit for the casting couch of  
‘Heroes’,” he said cheerily.   "Strong and _hot_.”

 

Willow cupped her hands round her mug and took a sip. “Ugh! And  
_naked_,” she sniggered. She rose from her chair. “This needs  
lightening up. And_ I _need to stretch my legs. Any cream in the fridge?”

 

“Oh, don’t go there. Spike’s been gone from this place a long time.  
Anything he left behind will have grown hundreds of legs by now.”  
He leaned towards Willow and touched arm, nodding towards Wesley.   
They watched him fast forward the film clips, muttering softly to himself,  
scribbling and making sketches in a battered notebook.

 

Lorne’s smile faded. “I suppose we should….”

 

“Yeah. I suppose so.”

 

“Found it,” cried Wesley.

 

Willow and Lorne returned to the table and the three of them watched  
as camera panned slowly across the top of the stone coffin, pausing for  
a close-up of the nautilus-shaped iris at its head. Wesley quickly drew  
its outline before the film moved to the next shot. A hand reached out,  
removed the fossil, and passed it off-camera. The screen blanked for a few  
seconds. Static covered it for a few more.

 

"Pack this carefully." Hamilton's voice was faint but clear. "And   
send it to the Museum. We don't want the Stone of Time falling into the   
wrong hands."

 

"The museum it is then." Lorne picked a set of keys from the table.   
"Need a chauffeur?"

 

"Take the shortest route," replied Wesley. “Via Civic Hall.”

 

   
  
---|---


	17. 16: On my soul, I'll speak but truth

  
  
  
  
[](index.html)

 

[Home](index.html)

 

* * *

  
[  
Fanfic Home](Fanfic.html)

 

* * *

  
[Soul Searching Home](Soul%20Searching%20Home.html)

 

 

 

|    
Soul Searching

 

________________________________________________________

 

  
****

Chapter 16 - On my soul, I'll speak but truth. (Shakespeare Henry  
VIII)

 

Pebbles in a jar; shiny, round, smoothed by aeons of waves, and sand, and  
weather; little specks of infinity crowded together, compressed against  
the sides of the glass. Shells arranged on counter tops; flinty-sharp, delicate  
as china; ocean colours; greens, and blues, and foamy white. More rocks  
beside the shells, labelled and tagged; waiting for their allotted places  
in the drawers below.

 

Spike turned over a large stone, feeling its roughened edge, tracing its  
curves. He ran a finger along a groove and stared at the curled imprint  
of a long-extinct creature, finely outlined yet unmistakable in its complex  
beauty. “A tiny time machine,” he murmured. He lifted the jar to the light,  
took off the lid and turned it upside down releasing its contents onto the  
workbench. “What was it we’re supposed to be looking for? A stone you say?”  
He fingered the pile then opened his arms wide and turned a full circle.  
“Like looking for a bloody needle in a haystack. The room’s chock-a-block  
with ‘em.”

 

“Not a stone,” Willow explained patiently. “A fossil. Like this.” She opened  
Wesley’s notebook and displayed the sketch he’d made of the nautilus.

 

“Well there’s tons of _them_ as well,” grumbled Spike. “What’s so  
important ‘bout this one?”

 

Wesley lifted his head from a display case.  “Willow needs it… to  
find Fred.”

 

“You thinkin’ of bringing Fred back with magic now? Thought you were working  
on that weapon thing?”

 

“We were. We _are_,” replied Willow. She glanced at Illyria. “It's   
_why_ we have to find Fred.”

 

Spike shrugged. “Makes about as much sense as me twirlin’ backwards from  
being crispy-fried and re-hydrating from that amulet I suppose.” He crouched  
down and resumed the search through the trays lining the drawers of a large  
storage unit. “Uh, and what exactly is it about Fred that you need?” He  
swivelled on his heels, gesturing towards Illyria. “Seems she’s been here  
all along, taggin’ Blue.”

 

“Parts of her memories have,” said Wesley through clenched teeth. “We need  
rather more of her than that.”

 

"But we saw her," Connor interrupted, glaring at Illyria.

 

Illyria returned his stare impassively. "Just as the lights in the night  
sky are but memories of long dead stars…. " She stopped, doubling over and  
clutching her stomach.  "The signature of the North Star is 680 light  
years from Earth. It is 680 years older when we see it…. but it is not dead."

 

"Fred?" Wesley rushed to Illyria's side and supported her sagging form.

 

"The Shell's memories are strong."

 

"Don't call her that!" yelled Connor.

 

"I am Illyria. I have no need of her presence. Nor the emotions that assail  
her."

 

"But _we_ do." Willow scooped the pebbles back into the jar. “We’ll  
explain everything when we get back. We have an orb of Thesulah and other  
stuff, but the spell won’t work without something that Fred touched before…”

 

“Before she was murdered.” Connor sneered.

 

Illyria pushed herself out of Wesley's arms. “They know that to be a falsehood,  
vampire spawn.”

 

“Dad,” Connor appealed to Angel. “Tell them.”

 

“Is there something I should know?” asked Wesley. “Something more you’re  
keeping from us?” He squared up to Angel, eyes narrowing.

 

Buffy stepped between the two men. “There hasn’t been time.”

 

“We know where Fred’s soul is, Wes.” Angel licked his lips nervously. “Here.  
With Illyria.”

 

“Then I suppose we won’t be needin’ _this_ after all?” Spike held  
up a large fossil for Willow’s inspection.

 

The sound of splintering wood, followed by the explosion of the heavy laboratory  
door, drowned Willow’s squeal of recognition.  She grabbed the stone  
from Spike’s outstretched hands and thrust it into her shoulder bag, removing  
a small pouch from its depths as she scuttled for shelter from the falling  
debris.

 

“Everyone out. Now!” yelled Angel, throwing himself at the bulky form of  
Wolfgang Hartram.

 

“Oh no you don’t Peaches,” shouted Spike. “Not keepin’ me from a good fight.”

 

“Me neither,” added Buffy.

 

The two of them joined Angel’s attack but Hartram flicked all three away,  
swatting them to opposite corners of the room with ease.

 

“Willow, Wes, get Connor to the car.” Angel grunted as he hit the wall.

 

“You think you can hide from us? We are no longer limited to the confines  
of Wolfram and Hart.” Hartram gave a feral smile. “The power of The First  
is remarkably liberating. You’d know all about that, vampire,” he said to  
Spike's crumpled form. He grabbed Illyria by the throat, lifting her high,  
and dashing her head on the counter. “We’ll have to see what we can do to  
bring an end to your roaming, Old One. Where is the mirror?”

 

Willow threw the contents of the pouch over Hartram’s head, clapping her  
hands as the final grains drifted to the floor. “_Discede_!”

 

Hartram exploded into a miriad of particles and disappeared.

 

“Great shot, Will,” said Spike. “Not that we didn’t have it covered.” He  
rubbed the back of his head with one hand and held out the other to Buffy.  
“Right Slayer?”

 

“Covered in the sense we were all about to die?” Buffy grasped the proffered  
hand. “Oh yeah.”

 

“Willow, I thought I told you to leave.” Angel pulled himself to his feet.

 

“Just practising for the real thing,” Willow replied, glaring. “And you’re  
welcome.”

 

__________________________________________________________

 

Water trickled from the misnamed 'power shower' in uneven rivulets, hardly  
moving the suds from Spike's hair and shoulders. He smashed his fist repeatedly  
into the lime-stained tiles surrounding the showerhead, grinding his jaw,  
allowing the tears to mingle with the scummy stream running into the soap-streaked  
tray.

 

"I get that you're angry. "A green hand pushed the curtain aside. "Taking  
it out on the less-than-secure plumbing arrangements is _not_ the way  
to go."

 

Spike shut off the water, pulled a towel from the rail and rubbed his hair  
vigorously. He wrapped a second towel around his waist and took the proffered  
glass from Lorne's outstretched hand. "Knew you were a barkeep. Accounts  
for correct-guessing my preferred poison," he said, tossing down the amber  
liquid. "Not gonna sing for you though."

 

"No need," replied Lorne re-filling the tumbler. "It rolled over me like  
a Tsunami as soon as you hit the back seat of the limo." He jerked his head  
towards the living space. "You figured the Big Guy passed his responsibility  
to you."

 

"Not _just_ that." Spike pulled on his jeans and T-shirt and ran a   
hand through his damp hair. "There was a lot more goin' on between Angel and  
… everyone on that limo ride.

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

"What did you think you were doing?" Angel continued haranguing Willow  
as the Mercedes squealed away from the Museum.

 

"Um - saving your unlife, along with Spike and Buffy's?"

 

"At incredible risk!"

 

"Lighten up, Peaches. You sound like Giles on one of his less pompous days.  
The Witch scored. Hit the bad guy out for a six." Spike rubbed the side  
of his face, which was blooming with purple weals along the length of the  
jawline.

 

"The bad guy who just happens to be The First…" Lorne paused, checking  
for traffic before swinging the limo into Exposition Boulevard, "stroke  
Senior Partners combo? That's pretty impressive."

 

"Lucky shot," replied Angel.

 

"It wasn't a lucky shot," said Buffy brusquely. "Will did the same to a   
Hell God once. Though there was some headachy fallout from that one."

 

"Lorne, where're you heading?" Angel asked, ignoring her as the car turned  
left on Sepulveda Boulevard.

 

"Back to the hotel, Big Fella. Wesley said we should head back tout suite."

 

"Has everyone gone crazy? We are _not _going back to the hotel." Angel  
gripped the back of the driver's seat and leaned close to Lorne's ear. "Since  
when did you take orders from Wesley?" he hissed. "Turn the car around and  
take us to Spike's place."

 

"Calm down, Angel" Wesley soothed. "It's not a question of giving or taking  
orders any more."

 

Angel turned and stared at him. "I nearly lost my son," he grated. "I just  
want to make sure he's safe."

 

"I'm OK Dad." Connor sank into the plump leather-cushioned headrest and   
closed his eyes.

 

"I guess a detour to tuck you up in bed won't take too long," said Buffy  
smiling at him. "And we could all do with a break and regroup before we  
decide what to do next.

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Spike grabbed the bottle from Lorne's hand and emptied the remaining contents  
into the glass.  "And he's _still_ at it," he growled. "Still  
trying to be the big boss. Can't stand it when anyone challenges his authority.  
Never could."

 

The sound of a subdued argument filtered through the flimsy partition.

 

"Angel, we can't do the summoning here. We need the pentangle at the hotel."  
Wesley kept his voice low, fearing to wake Connor who'd fallen into a deep  
sleep as soon as his head hit the pillows on Spike's narrow bed.

 

"You don't _know_ that drawing one here wouldn't work."

 

"Well no, that's true. But the hotel's where Fred's room…"

 

"The device which showed the room has a power over time such as I have  
not encountered," Illyria commented gazing intently into the mirror she'd  
salvaged from City Hall. "It returns to an earlier time on command. Or even  
halts its progression altogether."

 

 

 

"What we saw in that video never happened. It's all lies," said Angel.

 

 

"The camera never lies, Angelcake," Lorne called from the shower compartment.  
"Why d'ya think Nip/Tuck's so popular?"

 

"Fred moved from that room when we took over Wolfram and Hart," replied   
Angel. "It can't be true."

 

"Only one bloke to be trusted with the truth," said Spike emerging from   
the shower area, "and _you_ killed him."

 

"Not like I had much choice," Angel mumbled.

 

"Like you ever give anyone much of that," snorted Spike. "Too busy barking  
orders. 'We are _not_ going back to the hotel," he mocked in tones  
remarkably like Angel's.

 

"It's too dangerous."

 

"What Angel means," said Spike turning to the others, "is now his boy's   
all safe and sound, he's not much bothered 'bout what the rest of us want."

 

"He's my son!"

 

"And Dru was my Sire!" Spike snarled.

 

"The Senior Partners required but little effort to find my jailer here  
while we played pointless games and were deemed safe."  Illyria paused  
in the inspection of the mirror.

 

"And so we all stay together … here," Angel replied. "Willow does the summoning  
while I figure out what we do next."

 

"Why d'you think the Senior Partners sounded the retreat in that alley?   
Because Willow was doing some major mojo? said Buffy.  "She bought you   
some time that was all." She jerked her head in Spike's direction. "Someone   
else paid a high price to find a way out of the mess you'd gotten yourself   
into. What we do _next _is find Fred."

 

" Neither of you really got the hang of the whole 'working together as  
a team' thing, did you? Spike picked his duster off the sofa and rifled  
the pockets. "'Scuse me while I go have a fag in my own home."

 

"Angel's right about one thing, " said Willow as Spike stomped into the   
kitchen area. "It couldn’t hurt to try the summoning here." She smiled, appealing  
wide-eyed at Wesley who shook his head in frustration.

 

"Willow, without reference to the Watcher's Diary I'm not sure…"

 

"I memorised it," she whispered. She cleared a space on the floor and swiftly  
drew a pentangle, sprinkling the white sand from a pouch with a steady hand.  
On each of the five points, she placed a white candle, and in the centre,  
the fossil Spike had found in the Museum; beside it, she carefully placed  
the Orb of Thesulah. "I'm ready," she said standing. I need all of you to  
form a circle and hold hands.

 

Spike stubbed his cigarette in the sink. "You want me to light those first?"  
He gestured at the candles.

 

"Please." Willow nodded her thanks.

 

After the fifth candle was lit, Buffy took Spike's hand in hers and walked  
him to the waiting circle. Illyria stood apart, still watching the mirror  
intently. Buffy grasped Angel's hand with her free one and the five waited  
for Willow to begin the ritual.

 

"_I call upon the guardian of souls, the keeper of the passage. Let our  
breath flow from what is to what was. Bless us with the presence of the  
lost. Grant us communion with the world beyond our reach. I beseech you.  
Open your gates. Restore to us the one that is lost_."*

 

"Not to worry, Red. Can't win 'em all," said Spike after a few minutes  
of silence.

 

"At least nothing went kerblooey." Willow laughed nervously.

 

"Maybe it's because Fred's soul isn't in this dimension and we need a proper  
portal." Wesley released Lorne's hand. "Is there anything left in that bottle?"  
he asked gesturing at the one Spike had placed on the table.

 

"Run that past me again. About Fred's soul being here and yet … not." Spike  
opened a cupboard, took out a fresh bottle and handed it to Wesley.

 

"It's quite simple. What we see are images that are sometimes thousands   
of years old. The light has taken thousands of years to reach us. By the time  
it does, the star may be long dead. What we are really seeing is the distinctive  
spectral signature…."

 

"In English, you git," said Spike. "Not all of us here speak gobbledegook."

 

"Then think of it as Fred's radiance that stayed with Illyria when she  
crossed back into our time-line while Fred remained in the other one." Willow  
picked up the nautilus. "And that radiance, or radiation, has a resonance  
that's linked to both through The Stone of Time that brought us back."

 

"You mean it's still connected across time lines. So there's something  
getting through the barrier. Like a leak?" asked Spike.

 

"Sort of," said Willow.

 

"And this watch?"

 

"You don't wear a watch." Wesley inspected the broken timepiece on Spike's  
wrist.

 

"Where did you get…?"

 

"Same leaky place, I reckon. Illyria retrieved it from your office at Wolfram  
and Hart, along with that video and Fred's rabbit."

 

"So this alternate universe/time/dimension - whatever - is leaking because?"  
Buffy raised a questioning eyebrow.

 

"Because the Stone of Time was used there to summon Illyria and somehow   
got returned here." Willow frowned. "So why isn't it working?"

 

"Speaking of leaks," Lorne pointed at the mirror. "Notice anything else   
springing one?"

 

In the hazy surface of the glass, the huge gates solidified once again,   
a faint rumbling emanating from somewhere behind their massive bulk. Chunks  
of verdigris and rotting vegetation cascaded from the top as the gap between  
them widened. They shuddered and groaned, inching their way open in fitful  
jerks, the machinery grinding, rusty metal grating and screeching, finally  
coming to a halt, revealing a ghostly figure in the steaming misty void.  
 

 

“Knew they’d shriek,” Spike muttered to himself, squinting at the apparition  
stepping through the gaseous surface of the mirror.

 

The hazy form solidified, revealing a mediaeval knight, armed with both   
broadsword and shield. The helmeted head moved slowly from left to right,   
the eyes beneath the visor sweeping the room, stopping only when they found   
Angel. The Knight moved towards him, raising the sword.

 

“Haven’t you heard. Evil Inc’s gone all high-techie and 21st century,”  
cried Buffy launching herself at him.  She swung at his sword arm,  
falling against the mirror as he neatly side-stepped her attack.

 

“This is scant welcome to one who comes to serve your cause.”

 

 “Buffy, this is Drogyn, Truthsayer, Battlebrand, former Keeper of   
the Deeper Well,” said Angel. "The one we were looking for."

 

Drogyn removed his helmet "It is good to see you again, Angel. "The two   
men embraced briefly. "I once held Angel as my brother warrior against the   
forces of darkness."

 

“You got on well then? Back in the day?" Buffy scrambled to her feet .  
"Which one of you headed the glowery gang?”

 

Drogyn turned slowly and fixed her with an unwavering stare. “Do not,”  
he said slowly, "make light of things beyond your ken.”

 

“Oh I never had a Ken,” Buffy quipped. “I had a Barbie once. Her head came  
off.”

 

“This is the one on whom the world now relies in the fight against the  
darkness?” Drogyn appealed to Angel. “It truly is doomed.”

 

“Would’ve agreed with you once, mate,” said Spike. “But she’s not the only  
One. There’s hundreds more of ‘em. Mind you, not one of ‘em can hold a candle  
to Blondie here…” He stopped, frowning at Drogyn.“ Didn’t Angel kill you?”

 

"Yes," replied Drogyn. "Thankfully, he did."

 

 

* From Hellbound

 

 

 

 

 

  
  
  
---|---


	18. 17: Noble souls, through dust and heat, rise from disaster and defeat

  
  
  
  
[](index.html)

 

[Home](index.html)

 

* * *

  
[  
Fanfic Home](Fanfic.html)

 

* * *

  
[Soul Searching Home](Soul%20Searching%20Home.html)

 

 

 

|    
Chapter 17  
\- “Noble souls, through dust and heat, rise from disaster and defeat.”

 

________________________________________________________

 

 

Spike scooped the remains of Willow's summoning pentangle  
into the dustpan and binned it with the spent candles.  "Kill me own  
Sire, save the whelp and what happens? Nothing," Spike complained. "Angel  
tops the one bloke who might've been of some use to us and what does he  
get? Thanked by the very man he murdered."

 

Buffy handed him an overflowing ashtray, wrinkling her nose at the smell   
of stale tobacco. "Those Knightly types are weird. I thought we were through   
with freaky religious guys some apocalypses back." She grabbed the broom   
from Spike's hand. "Feet!" she said scowling at Lorne, who was swiping leisurely   
with a feather duster from the depths of an armchair.  

 

Oblivious to her glare, Lorne lifted his legs and, spotting a crystal  
at his feet as he did so, he picked it up and waved it at Willow. She didn't   
notice, but Illyria took it from his hand and passed it on, without dropping   
her gaze from the bedroom door.

 

"Drogyn never was forthcomin' with information. Seems Angel killing  
him's clinched a promotion to a new job." Spike cocked an ear in the direction   
of the bedroom. "How long's he been holed up in there with Percy and the   
Ponce?"

 

"Take it easy, Slim Jim," said Lorne. "They'll fill us in when they're   
ready. Drogyn's bringing Wesley up to speed with all the latest and Angel…"   
he trailed off and shot a worried glance at Connor sleeping on the sofa.

 

"I guess they have a lot to catch up on. What with being fellow brothers   
in the battle against the forces of darkness an' all." Willow smiled weakly.   
"Doing the brotherly catch-up stuff. You know. Like brothers do."

 

"My jailer has entered this realm for more significant reasons," Illyria   
spat, her tone one of uncharacteristic passion.

 

Spike stiffened. "And that would be?"

 

"The return of Winifred Burkle to this weak and flimsy shell."

 

"It's not what you think." Wesley emerged from the bedroom clutching   
the Orlon Window.

 

"What care have you of what I think?" Illyria faced the two men who  
followed him. "Or any of you? Your petty squabbles blind you to the threat  
that would be your downfall. You would risk all in the name of love." She  
fixed Wesley with a frosty stare. "I thought to avow you as my guide to  
this world. Instead you prove false and play the traitor."

 

"Old One." Drogyn stepped between Illyria and Wesley. "We seek a way   
to help you find your place, not destroy you."

 

Wesley nodded his agreement. "The time is long past when I wished you  
gone." He held up the Window. "With this, we can recall Fred's memories.  
Restore them to her … to your mind. With her help we can replace her soul.  
The two of you can co-exist…”

 

"To hear her thoughts? Feel her feelings? This is not acceptable" Illyria   
straightened to her full height. "I wish to hear what is the alternative.   
From the Truthsayer."

 

"I will escort you into the Old One's dimension," said Drogyn moving   
toward the mirror.

 

"And Winifred Burkle will truly die?"

 

"Yes."

 

"No!" yelled Wesley reaching for Illyria as she followed Drogyn.

 

"Wes!" Angel pulled him back.

 

"I wish to be as I once was." Illyria looked up at the massive gates.  
"Yet there is nothing in the Old One's realm for me as I am now. My powers  
diminished. My grace confined within this graceless form."

 

"Much time has passed since the Old Ones fled this world. There is peace   
there now," said Drogyn taking up his sword.

 

Illyria swung to face him. "My place lies not with peace. I have need  
of a purpose, a reason to be." She looked at Wesley's stricken face. "It  
lies here. In the fight to rid this dimension of those who have no right  
to it." She stepped down from the mirror's rim.

 

Wesley closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you," he  
said quietly. He released the Orlon Window and watched it fall to the floor.   
The delicate glass splintered, slivers showering the carpet, forming the   
pentangle outline where they settled.

 

"Wesley? Angel? What are y'all doing?"  asked Illyria in Fred's   
unmistakable Texan drawl. She clutched her head and looked wildly round   
the room. "Where is this?" She stopped when her eyes found the mirror. The  
portal was gone; replaced by the reflection of the room and its occupants.

 

 

Fred reached towards the reflected self staring out at her from glacial  
eyes. "I'm dead aren't I?" Tears pooled, turning the icy blue orbs to earthen  
brown. "Oh Wesley. You died in my arms." She swung back to face him, her  
liquid eyes solidifying in sapphire crystals.

 

"Such is my greatness that I allow myself to be infected with the memories   
of Winifred Burkle." Illyria's emotionless tones signalled her return.

 

"Our identity is forged in the experiences we remember, " said Drogyn  
gravely. He slapped Wesley on the shoulder. "The powers gave you great  
honour in trusting you would accept the necessity for Illyria to chose  
for herself, brother Watcher."

 

"Fred didn't get a choice," said Spike gruffly.

 

"Without Illyria's consent, Fred wouldn't stand a chance." Wesley turned   
to Angel. "We're agreed then. Everyone back to the Hyperion, prime the weapon  
and let battle commence."

 

Buffy folded her arms. "Is anyone going to let us in on what went on   
in the 'Dead Like Me - boys only!' meeting? Because I distinctly remember   
saying I'm tired of fighting blind."

 

"I wasn't invited," grumbled Spike placing the dustpan beside the bin.   
"And I'm dead. And a boy, last time I checked."

 

"No time for all that." Wesley paused. "Time. Time. Time is the key  
and of the essence. Time and number. Yes. Time and number. All there in  
Fred's room." He hurried back into the bedroom, retrieved a small hammer  
and chisel from a bag and dashed into the kitchen area.

 

Lorne gripped the sides of the armchair. "Is anyone else worried that  
Wes has flipped into homicidal maniac mode again? I know I got distinct  
whiff of Mad Max as he passed."

 

"I don't think putting him through that pantomime with Illyria helped."  
Spike's eyes narrowed. He studied Angel's face.  "You had no problems  
with that?"

 

"It's a Watcher thing," replied Angel. "Dro…" He licked his lips nervously.   
"Dro talked. I listened."

 

"That has to be a first... For both of you," said Spike settling into  
the remaining armchair.

 

"Willow would you hand me the nautilus?” Wesley seated himself at the  
small kitchen table. “You can fill everyone in about the weapon on the  
way to the hotel." He beamed at everyone. "It's remarkably clever and exquisite   
in design. Quite beautiful really."

 

“Willow took the stone from her bag. “Are you sure you should be doing   
this here… and now?” she asked Wesley anxiously. “We don’t know what’s inside  
and, even if we did, I don’t think…”

 

“Your attempt at summoning Winifred Burkle’s essence was doomed to failure   
without it,” Drogyn interrupted.

 

“Oh.” Disappointment resonated in Willow’s response.

 

 “As Keeper of the Gate and former Keeper of the Deeper Well, I   
alone possess knowledge of the passage between dimensions and through time   
where Illyria is concerned.” Drogyn faced Willow, his features softening.   
" I came to guide not admonish." He glanced at Angel and then at Connor who  
was stirring from his sleep. “And to inform what once I could only surmise   
about the Shanshu and now know to be true.”

 

Willow smiled gratefully at him and placed the nautilus on the table.

 

 

 “Some of Illyria’s power over time remains inside. It's what's   
causing the leak between dimensions,” Wesley explained. He positioned the   
tip of the chisel on the outer spiral and tapped it lightly with the hammer.   
“From what Drogyn has told me, once it is released Illyria will be able to  
cross to the parallel universe and bring Fred’s soul back.”

 

“That’s if she comes back,” cried Spike leaping from his seat.

 

At Spike’s words, all eyes turned to the mirror. For a brief instant,  
the place where Illyria had been standing was empty.

 

“I fought shoulder to shoulder with you in the alley. Yet still you  
doubt me.” Illyria strode towards him. “You big Ninny,” she said pulling  
him into a hug.

 

“Fred!” Spike swung her off her feet and twirled her round before setting   
her down again.

 

“You presume too much,” said Illyria flinging him across the room.

 

“What the bloody hell?” Spike spluttered his face contorting in confusion.

 

“Ah.” Wesley packed his equipment back into the bag. “I think we need  
some input into finding the right balance.”

 

“For that, you need look no further than he who made all this possible,”   
said Drogyn turning to Lorne. “The Green Man. The one whom the Powers chose   
as the vessel for their visions because he holds balance dear.”

 

“Whoa. Hey, hey, hey.” Lorne rose from his seat. “They Powers gave me  
the visions. They didn’t throw in the driver’s handbook.”

 

“No, they didn’t. But they gave me the Watcher’s Diary. I think you’ll   
find we have everything we need in that, ” said Wesley picking up his bag   
and heading for the door. “Will the Mercedes carry seven plus armour?” he   
asked as he made his way up the stairs.

 

 

 

   
  
---|---


	19. 18: Things won are done, joy's soul lies in the doing

  
  
  
  
[](index.html)

 

[Home](index.html)

 

  


* * *

  
[  
Fanfic Home](Fanfic.html)

 

  


* * *

  
[Soul Searching Home](Soul%20Searching%20Home.html)

 

 

 

|    


Soul Searching

 

________________________________________________________

 

 

Chapter 18:  Part 1. “Things won   
are done; joy's soul lies in the doing.” (Shakespeare)

 

Three pools of light lit the entrance lobby of the Hyperion Hotel.    
At the check-in desk, beneath the glare of the lamp, the shadowed figures   
of Wesley, Lorne and Drogyn hunched over the open Watcher’s Diary, their   
voices hushed.  

 

“So each of our warriors represents one of the five elements,” Wesley  
concluded.  “The four of matter; earth, air, fire, and water - by Buffy,  
Angel, Spike, and Connor. The fifth, the quintessential spirit, by…” Wesley  
flinched.

 

“By the name Spike so quaintly coined ‘_Frillyria_,“ Lorne finished.  
“That about sums it up, yes.”

 

“Just as knowing the true name of that which calls itself Wolfgang Hartram   
gives us power to summon him into our presence and banish him from this dimension…”  
Drogyn looked up from the Watcher’s Diary. “So when we shall find her true  
name it shall ensure the permanence of Winifred’s soul in this earthly form.”  
He turned his gaze towards the main staircase.

 

Beneath the stairwell, Willow and Fred shared floor-space with a large   
sheet of paper, a standard lamp, and Willow’s laptop, their girlish voices   
rising and falling at each new calculation and discovery.

 

 

 

"Illyria's a god born of chaos.  Determined to bring a new order  
and all." Fred clutched Feigenbaum tighter.

 

"Right," Willow said. "Isn't it strange?  It's always the gods of   
destruction that are loved the most in every culture."

 

"Feared the most, you mean."

 

"Well, that too."

 

Fred peered more closely at the screen.  "Time can only exist because   
of the second law, the displacement of order…"

 

"When Illyria walks in time and dimensions, then at some point she is  
always you," Willow concluded placing her hand on Fred's shoulder.

 

 

 

Fred’s irises turned blue. “When I so choose. ” Illyria removed Fred’s   
spectacles.

 

“There_ is _no choice. You can’t ride roughshod over the laws of  
physics,” Willow countered. “It’s all in the math.” She studied the diagram  
on the floor between them.  

 

 

 

“Or…” She added the final letter to Connor’s name. “A combination of kabbalah-math   
and magic.”

 

“Magic incantations are merely consonant representations of mathematical   
transfiguration formulae,” said Fred pushing her spectacles back into place.   
“At least, that’s my theory.”

 

“This power of magic and science combined is what The Senior Partners  
sought to forestall by having Angel kill me.” Drogyn left Wesley’s side  
and joined Angel in the middle of the lobby.  “They endeavoured to  
conceal the truth about Fred’s soul.”

 

Five candles flickered at the faintly marked points of the old pentagram.   
At its centre stood the mirror Illyria had rescued from City Hall. On the   
circular lobby bench beside the topmost point of the star, Angel watched   
Connor working his way down a pile of sandwiches on the table in front of   
them.

 

“You gonna leave some of those for the others?” Angel asked Connor.

 

“Hmmm?” Connor replied swallowing. “Oh, Sorry. I thought these were for  
me.”

 

“They are,” Buffy called over her shoulder from the other side of the  
seating. She got up, stepping over Spike who was stretched out on the floor,  
his eyes closed. “Are you sure about pairing Spike with me?” she asked lowering   
her voice. “”What with that chunk of missing memory, he’s…”

 

“_He’s_ right here,” said Spike gruffly. “Hearing department in full  
vampire working order.” He rose to his feet and lit a cigarette from the  
candle flame at the lower right hand point of the pentangle. “In fact, back  
to full working order in every department.” He tapped his temple. “Firing  
on all cylinders.”

 

“You got your memory back?” Angel joined him beside the guttering candle.

 

“The second Frilly returned.” Spike exhaled in Angel’s face. “Yeah, ya   
big poof. I’m back. And itchin’ to kick some demon arse… No offence,” he   
grinned at Lorne.

 

“Spike…” Buffy left her seat and moved towards him.

 

He swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “Now’s not the time,” he said  
evenly as she reached for his hand. “Got a job to do. Second chance at putting  
things to rights thanks to Drogyn and Lorne.” He stubbed the cigarette out  
on the candleholder and snuffed the flame between finger and thumb with  
his other hand.  “Right. Candles mark the spot. What’s next?”

 

“Choose your weapons,” said Lorne leaving Wesley’s side and moving towards   
the circle. “Then it’s lights, camera, action!”

 

“Now?” Angel glanced anxiously at Connor. “So soon? I thought I’d have   
more time…” He paused and appealed to Drogyn, his face crumpling. “I’m not   
happy with the whole ‘son fighting alongside the father’ thing. He never   
wanted… He has another life now. He never wanted any of this.”

 

“It’s OK, Dad.” Connor placed a hand on Angel’s arm. “Where else could   
I go? The Senior Partners gave me a family and took it away again. You’re   
my family and they tried to take that away too.” He picked a hunting knife   
from the collection Lorne had deposited on the table. “It’s payback time.”

 

“It is more than that, young one,” said Drogyn. “The Senior Partners spent   
much trouble trying to rid this world of you. They fear that you might do   
what Angel had tried and failed.” He took the knife from Connor’s hand and   
replaced it carefully in its sheath. “Destroy them.”

 

“Or at least return them to another dimension in a form from which there   
is no easy escape,” said Wesley placing three books beside the mirror.

 

“Who’da thought the Pilean laws governing physical properties would ever   
come in handy here?” Willow said brightly. “Just goes to show….” She stared   
at the faint outline on the floor. “You drew this to try to open a portal   
to Qu’or Toth? No wonder it didn’t work. It’s all wonky.” She glared at Angel.  
“_And_ I bet you drew it in the wrong order. Did you even use a sword   
for an athame?”

 

“Athame?” Angel studied the floor. “It’s not _that _wonky.”

 

“It’ll have to be done again - accurately.” Fred joined Willow. “Wesley,   
would you go through the plan one more time while Willow and I prepare a   
new summoning pentagram and binding circle.”

 

\------------------------------------------------------------

 

“Don’t you just love Suppes’ argument that hylomorphism offers a better  
conceptual framework than atomism for the Standard Model of elementary particles,”  
Fred asked excitedly handing Willow a jug. “One vessel. Fresh rainwater.”

 

“Both theories try to determine what exactly remains unchanged,” replied   
Willow looking round at the uncomprehending faces of her audience. She placed   
the jug beside the mirror and removed the old candles from their holders.    
“If _nothing_ remained unchanged, then one would have no order at all  
because the change would be 100 percent chaotic.”

 

“Does everyone understand?” asked Wesley as he deposited the pile of weapons   
on the small table beside the lobby bench.

 

“You mean do we know what all that mumbo jumbo about numbers and kabbals   
and mathematical transfiguration formulae means?” Spike shook his head. "Not  
a jot." He picked up a sword and strode to the position marked as his on  
Willow's diagram. "Does it matter?"

 

"No." Willow grinned at him and indicated to Buffy where she should stand.

 

 

"Now the part about dicing, slicing and dismembering. That I get." Spike   
took the sword from its scabbard. "Just tell me what’s my target."

 

“You’ve got the brain,” replied Wesley.

 

“That’s debatable,” muttered Buffy sulkily.

 

“And Buffy, you’re his backup,” reminded Willow, passing her the axe.  
“Instinct versus reason.”

 

“Fred, you take out the heart.” Wesley handed her two blades without looking   
at her. “Reason and power striking at the seat of sentiment.” He turned away  
from her before adding, “I believe it would be wise for you to assume Illyria’s  
form.”

 

“Angel, You take the balls…”

 

Spike snorted.

 

“And act as back up for Connor,” finished Wesley, placing the hilt of  
a Chinese Dao in Connor’s hand. “Heart and emotion combating instinct.”

 

"Will it work?" Angel asked picking up a sabre and taking his place at   
the top left-hand point of the pentangle.

 

“You mean can we destroy the indestructible combination of the Senior  
Partners and The First intent on bringing about Armageddon, trapping the  
former in here and banishing the latter?” Wesley opened each of the three  
books, revealing their empty pages. “If Willow and I can hold the pairs  
together, we’ve got a fighting chance.”

 

“Better odds than your Dad’s suicide mission against ‘em, at any rate.”  
Spike grinned at Connor. “Never thought Mr _It-takes-pure-artistry_  
would throw caution to the wind and fling himself into a fight he knew he  
couldn’t win.”

 

“Maybe I learned a little from you after all.” Angel squared his shoulders,   
hoisting the sabre high as Willow began the summoning spell. “Not that I’d   
ever admit it.”

 

“Places everyone,” said Lorne shakily. “Don’t forget your cues. It’s Showtime!”

 

   
  
---|---


	20. 18.2: I could a tale unfold whose lightest word Would harrow up
thy soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spike summed up the plan so eloquently, I thought

  
  
  
  
[](index.html)

 

[Home](index.html)

 

  


* * *

  
[  
Fanfic Home](Fanfic.html)

 

  


* * *

  
[Soul Searching Home](Soul%20Searching%20Home.html)

 

 

 

|    
** **

 

Soul Searching

 

_________________________________________________________________

 

 

**Summary:** Spike summed up the plan so eloquently, I thought  
I’d let him remind us. _“You mean do we know what all that mumbo jumbo  
about numbers and kabbals, dark matter and mathematical transfiguration formulae  
means?” Spike shook his head. "Not a jot." He picked up a sword and strode  
to the position marked as his on Willow's diagram. "Does it matter?" _

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Chapter 18: Part Two**. I could a tale unfold whose lightest   
word Would harrow up thy soul.

 

Willow returned to the small folding table outside the perimeter of the  
outer binding circle. A pewter offering bowl dominated the center: the embossed   
tree of life swaying across its surface in the eerie shadows cast by the   
lamplight. Celtic knots encircled the rim; gold and silver reflections battled   
in the highly polished interior. “Spike, I’ll need your watch,” she said placing  
a small wooden card box beside the bowl. She lit the adjacent incense cone  
and began the conjoining spell.

 

“As is the human body so is the Cosmic body. As is the human mind so is  
the Cosmic mind. As is the microcosm so is the Macrocosm. And as is the  
atom so is the Universe.” She took the incantation cards from their sandalwood   
box and beckoned Wesley, Drogyn and Lorne to join her. They formed a circle   
around the table and held hands while Willow continued the spell.

 

“_Grant us thy domain of primal strength, accept us and the powers we  
possess._

 

Mind and heart and spirit join, let the hand encompass us all.”

 

She turned a card and walked towards the pentagram.

 

“_Spiritus... spirit_,” she said handing the card to the first pair,  
Connor and Angel.

 

“_Animus... hear_t.” The second she gave to Spike and Buffy. Spike  
unfastened his broken watch and passed it to her.

 

She pocketed the timepiece and turned the third card. “Sophus... mind,”  
she said smiling at Fred.

 

“_Manus… hand_.” Willow paused, waited for Fred to morph into Illyria’s  
form, then offered her the final card.

 

At Willow’s nodded signal, the five warriors of the pentagram spoke in   
unison as they moved to their allotted places. “_We enjoin that we may   
bind one with the other. We implore thee. Admit us_.“

 

The conjoining spell finished, Willow lit a second incense cone, took  
the bowl and a votive candle from the table and moved to the center of the  
pentangle.

 

One by one, the others lit a candle.

 

“Air,” said Angel.

 

“Water.” Connor’s hand shook slightly.

 

“Fire.” Spike shot Buffy a reassuring grin.

 

“Earth.” Buffy lit the fourth candle.

 

“_Elements gather in this sacred place, around the fifth that has no   
face_,” said Illyria lighting the last one.

 

Willow placed Spike’s watch with the offering bowl beside the mirror.  
She lit the candle and placed it in front of the mirror, then poured water  
from jug to bowl as she performed the scrying ritual.

 

“_Fire burn and water run. Neath the moon and ‘neath the sun. Seeking,  
searching, bear to find. In the heart and through the mind_.”

 

A faint rumbling shook the mirror. Pinpoints of light sparkled in the  
dancing liquid; they bounced from side to side, following the inner curvature  
of the offering bowl. Faster and faster they flew in time with the percussive   
beat, until they formed a continuous boundary of light. The rumbling stopped.   
The liquid cleared, became still as glass; an image formed, faint at first   
then clarifying, solidifying into the image of Wolfgang Hartram.

 

"_By air and earth, by water and fire, so be you bound, as I desire.   
By three and nine, Your power I bind_."

 

Willow hurried to the safety of the outer binding circle. Her hair began   
to glow, lost its coppery sheen and turned white. Radiance suffused her;   
blue-white waves flickered towards Drogyn. She reached for his shield, bathing   
it in luminescence as he stepped forward to begin the summoning.

 

“_By the power of the circle of Ismene... By the power of the circle   
of Ismene, I command you Hyle. Come! I command you Hyle. Come! I command you  
Hyle. Come!_” demanded Drogyn, circling the pentagram. The shield trailed  
silver streams of light, orbitting the outer ring, binding it beneath Willow's  
powerful protection.

 

A contorted figure materialised in the centre of the star; the wolf’s  
head thrashed, twisted, and howled with rage. “Who dares summon Hyle?” Hartram’s   
voice growled from the depths of the beast’s jaws. He looked into the mirror,   
touched its tarnished surface and smiled as his human face took form; the   
feral grin stopped at his eyes. “I am that which was before all things were   
given form. Before the Word. Before the Big Bang. Where Chaos was, there   
was I. Yet you….”

 

“What _is_ it with you evil types and the long-winded speechifying?”  
Spike raised the sword and swept a high breaking traverse cut to the right  
side of Hartram’s neck. “All mouth and no trousers I reckon.”

 

Hartram stepped into the swing with crossed arms. He grasped the sword   
along its blunt edge, extending his arms as he followed through. He wrenched   
the sword from Spike's grip and flung him into a marble pillar.

 

“You cannot destroy us. We are immortal. We are invincible. We are….”

 

“A Royal pain in the ass?” cried Buffy. She swung the axe. The blade sang   
as it whirred through the empty space where Hartram had been.

 

He struck her with the pommel of Spike’s sword. The force slammed her  
into Connor, sending them both reeling to the ground.

 

Angel charged. He swept his sabre upward to block the sword. Hartram’s   
fist punched him from the circle where he landed beside Spike.

 

"Time for a re-think of the tactics, Old Man," quipped Spike. "Lorne.  
A weapon. It's time for a little Butch and Sundance."

 

"We already did that," Angel grunted, rubbing his bleeding jaw.

 

"Action replay." Spike laughed delightedly as he caught the sword hilt   
tumbling towards his outstretched hand.

 

The two vampires launched themselves back into the fight, morphing into  
vampface, fangs descending, blades sparking as they passed through the power  
shield.

 

"One-way door. Neat." Spike grinned.

 

Before either of them could strike, Connor heaved Buffy aside and plunged   
the Dao up into Hartram’s groin.

 

Hartram crumpled, his blood staining the turquoise ripples of terrazzo.

 

“Wow!” Connor beamed at Angel. “I could get used this. Didn’t think it   
was gonna be _that _easy. I…"

 

A savage blow felled him from behind. He staggered to his knees, blood   
streaming from the gash in his head.

 

Angel winced at the sight of Connor’s injury. “It isn’t.” He dragged Connor   
to one side. “Lorne, take care of him.”

 

Hartram pulled the blade out from his groin and flung it away. “As I was   
saying…” He strode out of the inner binding circle, past an immobile Illyria,   
and ripped Connor from Lorne’s grasp.

 

“You cannot destroy us, miracle boy. We are Legion. We are more than three   
in one.”

 

Angel, Buffy and Spike rushed Hartram from the left and he spun Connor   
through 90 degrees to slam into them. The force tumbled them in a heap, scattering  
the bowl and smashing the jug.

 

Beyond the outer circle's perimeter, Wesley and Willow faced one another   
and held hands. Lorne retrieved the spinning scrying bowl, seated himself  
on the floor between them, held the bowl with the tree of life against his  
chest, and began to sing.

 

_ #"The natural cards revolve ever changing..."#_

 

“The Green Man,” Hartram mocked. " Small earth magic cannot prevail against   
us." He turned to the mirror and pointed  at the glass.  "The Gates  
of Pulon Odoß. Open and let the darkness return." The shuddering began  
again, as the gates materialised and inched apart.

 

_ #"May the long time sun shine upon you, all love surround you.”  
_

 

Lorne sang on, clutching the card and swaying to an inner rhythm.

__

 

#" And the pure light within you, guide you all the way on."#

 

Willow and Wesley joined him, their voices steady. They followed his lead   
through the intricate melody.

 

“We are three_ plus_ one. Unalterable, indivisible, the perfect Supreme  
Being.” Hartram approached the seated couple, frowning in frustration when  
the power shield halted his progress.

 

“As once was I.” Illyria advanced, a blue whirlwind spiraling chaotically   
around him, knives slashing. ”Things change. Now - I am _more_.”

 

Connor staggered back up, joining her as she attacked, striking low where   
she struck high. He swept his knife across the hamstring of Hartram’s leading   
leg, bringing him down at their feet.

 

As Hartram fell, Illyria plunged the stiletto into his heart.

 

Connor sliced upward. “Three plus one is indivisible huh?” he snarled.   
“Someone flunked math.” He followed the curvature of the knife blade and   
drove it higher.

 

Hartram screamed, an inhuman bellow vomiting from his mouth as the guts  
spilled from his torso. The noise took shape, growing, writhing; a huge  
horned creature filled the room with darkness. It flailed impotently against  
the walls, roared its frustration, faded, then dissolved.

 

Illyria tilted her head curiously. “This Dark Matter is but a chimera,”  
she observed.

 

“Only for a given definition of chimera.” Fred’s brown eyes replaced the   
Illyrian blue. “Phantom energy, hypothetically speaking, is a form of dark   
energy with the equation of state w is greater than minus 1. It could easily   
cause the expansion of the universe to accelerate so quickly that the Big   
Rip would occur.”

 

“We’d better set about our own big rip then,” said Spike. He offered Buffy   
the axe. “This one’s for you to do.”

 

She averted her eyes from the viscera spilling from Hartram’s body, swung   
the weapon down, and severed the head with one blow.

 

Willow slumped as the power left her, glad that her head thrummed with   
effort. She wasn't eager to hear Angel and Fred finish the dismemberment.

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

"Is that it?" asked Buffy, leaning against the pillar. "Have we won?"

 

"Not quite." Wesley released Willow's hands. "There's the little matter  
of returning the Senior Partners to their proper place." He picked the three   
books from the ground and approached Hartram's dismembered corpse, stepping   
between patches of gore and entrails. He grimaced at the grim scene beneath   
his feet.

 

Drogyn lay his shield aside and joined Wesley. He waited as Wesley opened   
each book in turn and placed them beside the relevant body part.

 

"The Wolf – intellect – the head." Wesley opened the first book beside   
Hartram's severed head.

 

"The Ram – instinct and passions – the testicles." He tore a strip from  
the bottom of his shirt, wiped the blood from the floor and lay the second  
in place.

 

"The Hart - emotion and sentiment – the heart." Wesley lowered the third   
and nodded to Drogyn.

 

"Hold fast to the Law of the last cold tome. Where the earth of the truth   
lies thick on the page," Drogyn intoned solemnly.

 

"The Wolf. The Ram. The Hart." Wesley closed each book in turn.

 

Willow held a lighted candle and stood beside Drogyn.

 

"_Candles’ flame burning bright, by your flame on this night, trap all  
evil, seal it well. In each tome, may it remain, never to be loosed again_."

 

Drogyn picked the books from the ground and together they walked towards   
the mirror.

 

"_Do not ask to know my name. Go yea back from whence you came._  
" Drogyn placed the books in front of the mirror, struck it three times  
with his sword and watched them disappear between the closing gates.

 

"Have we done enough?" asked Buffy. She looked round at her battered and   
bloody comrades.

 

"Sending the Senior Partners to another dimension is merely a return to  
how things were," replied Wesley. "Will it stop The First? I doubt it. So  
long as there are human beings to be corrupted, there will always be evil  
in this world."

 

"And we'll continue to fight it," said Angel, his arm around Connor's  
shoulder. "For one soul at a time."

   
  
---|---


	21. 18.3: Soul Searching - The Epilogue

  
  
  
  
[](index.html)

 

  
[Home](index.html)

 

  


* * *

  
[  
Fanfic Home](Fanfic.html)

 

  


* * *

  
[Soul Searching Home](Soul%20Searching%20Home.html)

 

 

 

|    


Soul Searching:  
The Epilogue

 

_________________________________________________________________

 

"You got everything you need?" Willow gestured at  
Feigenbaum perched on top of a small suitcase, waiting alongside the mirror.  


"I think so. I mean I packed for  
every…." Fred turned to Drogyn "What’s the weather like in the Old One’s  
Domain? You think three jumpers will be enough?"

Drogyn notched his sword belt  
tighter, picked up his shield and stepped towards the gates. "Until you  
locate the Oracle who holds the true name of your combined spirits, you  
will have no need of the protection of human garb. Illyria will assume whatever  
form is necessary."

"And when we have it?" Wesley picked  
up his bag and hoisted it onto his shoulder. "What then?"

"You must find a way to return."  
Drogyn placed a hand on the centre of the portal; it opened at his touch.  
"I cannot accompany you. I must resume my duties as Keeper of the Gate."  
He motioned at the open gateway. "Your way lies through there. I follow  
another path."

"I wish I could come with." Willow  
kissed Fred lightly on the cheek. "But what with Giles’ frantic phone call  
for help last night…" She grimaced apologetically.

"And me," Connor said shyly. He  
gave Fred a quick peck on the opposite cheek. "Also with the sorry."

"Me too." Buffy embraced Fred.  
"With the sorry bit, not the frantic part."

Fred bent to pick up her bag. "Well.  
This is it then. Bye y’all." She waved to Lorne.

"So soon?" Lorne threw his arms  
around her and pulled her into a hug. "We only just got used to having you  
back Freddles." He released her, studied her at arms’ length for a second  
and narrowed his eyes. "I know you’re in there somewhere, Lyri. You be good  
to our girl."

"As she is to me." Fred’s eyes  
flashed icily and Illyria shrugged herself free from his grasp. "There is  
much we may provide one for the other while we remain together in this vessel."

She closed her eyes and fastened  
her hand in a vice-like grip on Lorne’s arm, drew him close and hugged him  
again.

"If it hadn’t been for you and  
Spike, I wouldn’t ever have come back," said Fred. Where _is_  
Spike?" she asked looking around the lobby.

"Avoiding _me_," replied  
Buffy.

Fred picked up her case. "Well  
then, I guess I’m finally ready."

Wesley took her arm, turned and  
looked at Angel for a long moment, then stepped into the portal.

"Take good care of her Wes," said  
Angel.

A blur of black leather raced  
towards the mirror.

"Where are _you_ going?"  
Angel caught the sleeve of Spike’s duster and swung him round.

"_Why_ are you going?" asked  
Buffy, her voice wavering.

"Nothin’ here for me." Spike yanked  
his arm from Angel’s grip, pulled his coat closer and dropped his eyes from  
Buffy’s. "Not with Dru gone."

"You still have family." Angel  
licked his lips nervously. "You still have me."

"And _you_ have Connor. Father  
and son tag-team." Spike shrugged. "LA doesn’t need me anymore. He jerked  
his head towards Wesley’s disappearing figure. "But I reckon Wes ’n Illyria’ll  
need a bit of muscle on their way back from the Old One’s gaff. Thought I’d  
tag along for a while. Bring a spot of civilisation to the natives." He turned  
towards the portal.

Buffy caught his hand. "Spike.  
Ever thought _I_ might need you?"

Spike shook his head and pulled  
his hand free. "Face it, love. Happy-ever-after’s not for the likes of you  
and me. Is it?"

She stared into his eyes. "No,"  
she replied her own brimming with tears. "I guess it isn’t."

His face softened. "You’re like  
me, Buffy. Still all about the fight," he murmured caressing her cheek.  
He bit his lower lip and took a deep breath, his shoulders slumping as he  
dropped his hand from her face and turned away. "And you got a great gig  
waitin’ for you in Cleveland, what with Giles wantin’ you as lead with the  
Slayerettes."

"Oh, don’t mention gigs for at  
least the next decade or five," said Lorne. "If I never hear Psychedelic Folk  
again, it’ll be too soon." He picked a tumbler from the check-in desk and  
threw back its contents. "I still have ‘acid’ taste in my mouth.

Spike sprinted towards the gates  
as they started to close. From within the smoky interior, a shadowy form  
loomed; a slavering demon blocked his entrance. "Now _that’s_ more  
like it!" he cried, flinging himself forward.

The gates closed behind him with  
a clang and sank into the swirling whirlpool of mist. The mirror folded  
in on itself, disappearing with a gentle gurgle as it followed the gates.

"Do you think the Old Ones are  
ready for him?" asked Lorne.

"Doubt it," replied Buffy. She  
faced Angel, her face streaked with tears.

"Don’t worry," he said. "He’ll  
be back. Spike _always_ comes back."

\------------------------------------------  
  
---|---  
  



End file.
